SIACK 
\SNEX 


THE  FOOTPRINT 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


Gouverneur  Morris  in  his  study 


THE  FOOTPRINT 

AND   OTHER   STORIES 


BY 

GOUVERNEUR  MORRIS 


WITH  PORTRAIT 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW   YORK  :::::::::::::::::::::::  1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRI3NK1VS  SONS 


TO  ELSIE 

This  ship  of  mine  does  not  contain 
The  precious  stuffs  that  others  do; 

But  bears  into  the  raging  main 

Assorted  yarns,  addressed  to  you. 

Because,  or  course,  fine,  white  or  black, 
Or  skeined  or  tangled  to  undo, 

You  always  buy,  and  send  not  back, 
The  yarns  I  always  spin  for  you. 

Prom  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year, 
In  easy  times  or  in  duresse, 

You  buy  my  yarns,  and  buy  them  dear, 
And  pay  for  them  in  Loveliness. 

A  thousand  times  you've  paid  for  all 
That  I  have  ever  spun.  And,  in 

Outpoured  advances,  bought  the  call 
On  all  I  ever  hope  to  spin. 

So  men,  of  me,  when  I  am  not, 

Shall  say,  if  anything — "Here  lies 

A  merchant,  whose  unusual  lot 
It  was  to  trade  in  Paradise." 

G.  M. 

AlKEN,   S.   C. 


NOTE 

Of  the  stories  which  compose  this  volume,  "A  Carolina 
Night's  Dream"  and  "The  Execution"  are  printed  for  the  first 
time.  For  permission  to  use  most  of  the  others,  I  thank  the 
editor  of  COLLIER'S  WEEKLY.  And  I  am  indebted  to  the 
CENTURY  MAGAZINE  for  the  loan  of  "Captain  England,"  and 
to  TRANSATLANTIC  TALES  for  the  loan  of  "The  Best  Man" 
(formerly  "  Burnt  Bridges  ").  I  should  have  said,  perhaps,  that 
I  heartily  thank  them  alL  And  as  heartily  hope  to  be  indebted 
to  them. 

G.  M. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Footprint 3 

II.  Paradise  Ranch 51 

III.  Captain  England 85 

IV.  The  Execution 123 

V.  Simon  UOuwier 147 

VI.  A  Carolina  Night's  Dream    ....  173 

VII.  The  Stowing  Away  of  Mr.  Bill  Ballad  193 

VIII.  The  Explorers 219 

IX.  The  Little  Heiress;  or  the  Hunted  Look  237 

X.  The  Best  Man 271 

XI.  The  Crocodile  .  305 


THE  FOOTPRINT 


THE   FOOTPRINT 


BETWEEN  TWO  BAYS 

We  were  waiting  for  the  tide  to  ebb  before  resuming 
work  on  the  schooner's  bottom.  There  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  her  planks;  but  she  had  become  so  foul 
by  months  of  cruising  in  the  warm,  fertile  waters  of  the 
Gulf  of  California  that  she  could  not  come  about  in 
anything  less  than  a  whole-sail  breeze.  From  the  water- 
line  down  she  had  grown  a  yard-long  beard  of  sea-greens 
that  must  have  weighed  several  tons.  This  growth, 
teeming  with  marine  life — diminutive  abalones,  crabs, 
spiders,  baby  squids,  and  enormous  barnacles  that 
looked  like  extinct  volcanoes  filled  with  marrow — made 
the  work  of  cleaning  her  difficult  and  repulsive.  With 
the  least  exposure  to  the  tropic  sun  she  stank  like  a 
rotten  fish;  the  weeds  clung  to  her  planks  as  hair  clings 
to  the  head,  and  we  were  forever  slicing  our  hands  and 
forearms  on  the  barnacles.  WTe  had  warped  her  into 

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one  of  two  small  shallow  bays,  divided  from  each  other 
by  a  high  promontory  of  drifted  sand;  and  as  the  tide 
receded,  and  left  her  drying  and  stinking,  we  worked 
against  time  and  a  slender  larder  to  get  her  clean.  When 
the  unfinished  work  had  been  covered  by  the  rising 
tide,  and  further  barbering  become  impossible,  we 
would  retire  to  the  sands  that  divided  the  two  bays,  to 
grumble  and  to  smoke. 

The  sand  of  which  the  promontory  was  composed, 
though  dry  as  dust,  had  a  kind  of  inherent  cohesiveness 
that  caused  it  to  maintain  itself  in  hillocks  and  pinnacles 
and  curious  monumental  forms,  among  which  it  was 
possible  to  find  shade.  Our  favorite  place  to  smoke 
and  grumble  was  a  hollow,  round  like  a  bird's  nest, 
with  one  beetling  elevation  of  sand  to  the  west  of  it  and 
another  to  the  east.  Except  at  high  noon  there  was 
always  shade  in  the  hollow,  and  sometimes  a  kind  of 
draught  (less  than  the  least  breeze)  was  imagined  to  pass 
over  it.  Looking  south  or  north  from  this  nest  the 
views  were  very  much  the  same,  except  that  in  the  fore 
ground,  or  forewater  of  the  south  exposure,  was  the 
grounded  schooner  and  the  schooner's  boat  moored  to 
the  beach  by  a  staked  oar.  To  the  eyes  of  instruments 
there  may  have  been  a  calculable  difference  between 
the  two  bays  of  which  we  had  the  prospect,  but  to  the 
human  eye  there  was  none;  nor  was  there  between  the 
white  desert  shores,  blotched  with  pale-blue  shadows, 

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that  semicircled  them.  The  two  bays  were  like  the 
upper-half  of  a  vast  pair  of  blue  spectacles,  of  which  the 
promontory  dividing  them  was  the  nosepiece;  the  semi- 
circling  beaches,  the  silver  rims;  the  blue  shadows, 
tarnishes.  It  was  a  prospect  with  which  one  soon  sick 
ened  and  soon  grew  angry.  Of  vegetation  there  was 
not  so  much  as  one  dead  stem. 

During  our  periods  of  enforced  idleness  the  prevail 
ing  atmosphere  was  one  of  pessimism.  Our  expedi 
tion  had  been  a  failure  from  the  beginning.  We 
were  even  ashamed  to  recall  what  we  had  once 
conceived  to  be  its  purpose.  We  said  only:  "Let 
us  once  get  back  to  San  Francisco  and  somebody 
will  smart  for  his  smartness."  We  had  long  since 
consigned  the  map,  with  its  alluring  directions  in 
red  ink,  its  infinity  of  plausible  detail,  and  its  gen 
eral  and  particular  verisimilitude,  to  the  reddest  devils 
of  the  deep  sea.  "Let  Arundel  get  the  rubies  him 
self,"  we  said.  "  Rubies— hell ! " 

There  were  five  of  us :  four  young  fools,  Crisp,  Hawes, 
Meff  and  myself,  and  Morgridge,  who  was  an  old  fool. 
We  formed,  together  with  Arundel,  sick  in  a  San  Fran 
cisco  hospital  with  tuberculosis  of  the  bone  (and  lucky 
to  be  so  well  off,  we  thought),  a  stock  company  with  a 
jointly  paid-in  capital  of  twenty-five  hundred  dollars. 
The  company  had  paid  Arundel  two  hundred  dollars 
for  his  map,  chartered  the  schooner  (renamed  her 

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the  Ruby},  found  her  in  water,  provisions,  and  firearms, 
and,  with  Morgridge  in  command,  set  sail  for  the  Gulf 
of  California. 

Arrived  without  mishap  in  those  sharky,  blistering 
waters,  we  cruised  week  after  week,  month  after  month, 
seeking  the  key  to  Arundel's  map.  "I  can  only  tell 
you,"  he  had  said,  "that  there  are  two  bays,  very  much 
alike,  separated  by  high  sand-dunes.  The  bay  to  the 
north  is  marked,  where  it  bites  deepest  into  the  desert, 
by  a  kind  of  granite  monolith  that  you  can  see  for  miles. 
It  must  be  fifty  feet  high,  and  looks  like  an  obelisk  in 
the  making.  The  trail  starts  a  little  to  the  north  of 
this,  and  then  you  can  apply  the  map,  and  it  will  tell 
you  more  than  I  can." 

We  happened  to  be  seated,  grumbling  and  smoking, 
between  two  such  bays  as  Arundel  had  described.  But 
they  were  not  the  first  pair  we  had  found,  nor  the 
second.  The  whole  coast  was  pitted  with  semicircular 
bays,  and  it  had  been  no  great  trick  to  discover  pair 
after  pair  as  like  as  the  eyes  in  a  man's  head.  The 
trick  was  to  find  one  single,  solitary  needle  of  granite. 
And  in  that  we  had  dismally  failed.  Indeed,  in  the 
course  of  a  hundred  landings  at  various  points  we  had 
not  found  so  much  as  one  pebble  bigger  than  a  robin's 
egg.  There  was  nothing  but  sand;  there  wasn't  even 
sandstone.  The  only  big,  hard  things  were  abalone 
shells  that  had  been  washed  ashore.  To  have  continued 

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so  long  to  hunt  for  a  granite  monolith  in  a  region 
which  emphatically  denied  the  possibility  of  its  con 
taining  one  was  a  reflection  upon  the  intelligence  of 
all  concerned. 

Morgridge,  who  was  near-sighted  and  never  without 
his  binoculars,  lay  on  his  belly  and  elbows,  listlessly  fol 
lowing  the  gambols  of  a  porpoise-school  in  the  waters 
of  the  northern  bay.  He  remarked  that  the  sight  cooled 
him.  Meff,  with  his  eye  on  the  tide,  said  that  he  was 
sorry  to  say  we  could  get  back  to  work  in  about  twenty 
minutes;  Hawes  and  Crisp  were  quarrelling  desultorily 
over  a  game  of  piquet,  in  which  was  involved  the  filthiest, 
most  dog's-eared  pack  of  cards  I  ever  saw.  "I  said 
you  had  point,"  said  Crisp;  "shut  up  and  go  on." 
"Tierce  to  the  king,  twice,"  said  Hawes,  not  with  any 
great  hope.  "You  saw  the  discard,"  said  Crisp,  "I 
only  took  one  card;  you  must  know  that  I've  got  the 
knave  quint  in  diamonds.  It's  awfully  damn  dull  play 
ing  with  you.  I  have  to  tell  you  everything."  "Yes, 
you're  the  whole  show/'  said  Hawes.  "Everybody 
knows  that."  The  voices  of  the  two,  if  sarcastic,  were 
listless,  and  neither  seemed  capable  of  raising  more  than 
a  shadow  of  resentment  in  the  other.  "Lead,  fool," 
said  Hawes  quietly.  "Twenty-one,  Pinhead,"  retorted 
Crisp,  and  he  led  with  the  king  of  spades. 

"  Boys,"  said  Morgridge  suddenly,  "  there  s  a  junk 
heading  into  the  bay." 

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II 
THE  MAN  WITH  THE  YELLOW  UMBRELLA 

The  waters  of  the  Gulf  of  California  are  rarely  sailed; 
the  shores  more  rarely  tramped.  Of  the  region's 
shadows  no  one  is  cast  by  the  hand  of  the  law.  Diogenes 
would  find  there  no  honest  face  in  which  to  shine  his 
lantern.  There  men  with  itching  palms,  and  pasts  that 
clamor  of  unsuccess,  voyage  now  and  then  in  ill-formed 
craft,  drawn  by  rumors.  To  some  the  inland  mountains 
have  yielded  metals;  now  and  then  a  lucky  crew  are 
enticed  along  a  wake  of  ambrosial  sweetness,  to  find 
in  the  waters  a  lump  of  ambergris  that  floats  in  the  rain 
bow  colors  of  its  self-exuded  oil,  and  is  more  precious 
than  gold.  From  beneath  the  waters  now  and  then  are 
fished  up  bright  and  heavy  pearls,  orient,  and  abalone. 
But  of  the  crews  that  go  there  is  one  that  comes  back 
with  treasure,  the  mother  of  rumors,  there  are  two  that 
come  back  with  nothing  but  scurvy,  and  there  are  seven 
that  do  not  come  back  at  all. 

Only  Chinamen,  light  of  appetite  and  clean  to  the  last 
nail,  can  long  endure  the  climate,  and  only  the  Chinese 
expeditions  strike  an  average  of  success.  But  in  those 
unpoliced  waters  a  junk  of  Chinamen  is  a  thing  for 
white  men  to  avoid.  It  is  a  devil,  sea-buffeting,  and, 
before  the  wind,  swift.  It  is  filled  with  cheap  lives,  it 

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is  full  of  greed,  full  of  rifles,  and  formidable  in  patience 
and  surprise. 

That  the  crew  of  the  junk  now  rounding  the  northern 
horn  of  the  northern  bay,  perhaps  a  half-mile  distant, 
would  not  soon  discover  us  among  the  shadows  and 
hollows  of  the  dunes,  was  probable;  and,  of  course,  the 
schooner  was  completely  screened  from  the  most  alert 
eye  by  the  whole  mass  of  the  promontory  which  divided 
one  bay  from  the  other.  But  it  was  also  probable  that 
in  the  course  of  time  the  junk  would  round  that  screen 
and  become  unpreventably  interested  in  our  private 
affairs:  interested  surely,  and  perhaps  involved.  For 
if  the  junk's  captain  thought  that  we  had  anything  that 
he  wanted,  he  would  try  to  take  it.  But  not  at  once. 

There  would  pass  between  the  junk  and  the  schooner 
very  ceremonious  and  courteous  greetings,  and  the  junk 
would  lumber  away  as  if  intent  upon  some  far-off 
destiny.  But  she  would  not  go  very  far;  just  out  of 
sight  around  the  next  corner,  and  she  would  come  back; 
not  the  same  night,  when  all  of  us  would  be  watching, 
nor  the  night  after,  when  half  of  us  would  be  still  nervous 
enough  to  keep  awake,  but  later  by  several  nights,  and 
at  her  own  well-chosen  and  sudden  time.  She  had 
a  crew,  probably  of  at  least  twenty-five,  with  a  rifle, 
knife,  and  revolver  apiece;  she  had  a  little  machine- 
gun,  probably.  Surely  she  had  no  morals. 

To  the  naked  eye  the  junk  presented  little  but  a 
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color  scheme,  and  it  needed  a  turn  at  the  binoculars  to 
see  faces  and  details.  The  color  scheme,  like  that  of 
all  junks,  was  a  sincere  if  misguided  effort  to  achieve 
the  beautiful.  Her  body  was  painted  indigo  blue;  the 
square  sail  by  which  she  was  drawn  slowly  into  the 
bay  was  pure  vermilion.  And  aft  some  one  had  spread, 
to  keep  off  the  sun,  a  bright  yellow  umbrella. 

From  a  brazier  in  the  bow  of  the  junk  rose  a  tottering 
thread  of  bluish  smoke,  and  beside  the  brazier  (all  this 
through  the  glass)  stood  a  lofty  Chinaman.  He  was 
nearly  naked,  and  absolutely  expressionless;  a  splendid 
ly  moulded,  utterly  lifeless  statue  of  brownish-yellow 
clay.  An  enormous  brass  cymbal  dangled  by  a  thong 
from  each  of  his  wrists.  The  inanimate  cymbals  were 
the  only  things  about  him  that  moved.  Amidships  was 
a  circle  of  half-naked  men,  squatting,  gesticulating,  and 
articulating,  who  seemed  intent  upon  something  in  their 
midst.  We  hazarded  that  it  was  a  game  of  fan-tan. 
In  the  stern,  only  a  little  less  statuesque  (because  of 
more  drapery)  than  the  man  in  the  bow,  stood  the  helms 
man,  his  hands  clasped  about  the  grip  of  a  twelve-foot 
indigo  oar,  whose  blade,  half  immersed,  followed  in  the 
junk's  wake  like  the  dorsal  fin  of  a  shark.  A  little  in 
front,  and  to  one  side  of  the  helmsman,  was  spread  the 
yellow  umbrella.  Under  it  was  seated,  cross-legged,  a 
Chinaman,  mountainous  with  robes  and  fat.  He  was 
more  than  a  detail  and,  except  for  his  umbrella,  less 

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than  a  complete  tone  of  the  junk's  color  scheme.  His 
voluminous  robes,  mauvely  and  greenly  brocaded  with 
indistinguishable  patterns,  were  of  the  richest  and  dark 
est  blue  imaginable.  He  exuded  an  atmosphere  of 
ruches.  You  knew  at  once  that  he  was  many  times  a 
millionaire.  You  knew,  too,  that  he  had  lived  well,  and 
revolved  among  pleasant  episodes  and  people.  There 
was  an  expression  upon  his  face  that  I  have  never 
before  seen  upon  the  face  of  an  Oriental — jollity. 
Through  the  glass  we  could  see  that  from  time  to  time 
he  smiled,  a  broad  appreciative  smile,  begotten  doubt 
less  of  some  sudden,  transient  thought.  And  whenever 
he  smiled  he  twirled  the  handle  of  the  yellow  umbrella 
with  his  fat  fingers.  On  his  head  was  a  little  blue  cap 
terminated  by  a  large  green  button.  Occasionally  he 
fanned  himself  with  a  little  round  fan. 

The  junk's  course  was  a  long  curve,  parallel  to  that 
of  the  shore,  and  as  close  to  it  as  the  shelving  nature  of 
the  beach  would  safely  allow.  As  she  was  steered  more 
and  more  to  the  starboard  her  big  vermilion  sail  began 
to  shut  off  our  view  of  the  stern  and  to  cast  its  shadow 
over  the  fan-tan  players.  The  helmsman  and  the  man 
with  the  yellow  umbrella  disappeared,  and  as  the  junk 
veered  more  and  more  a  funny  fat  little  vermilion 
dinghy  came  into  sight,  trailed  by  a  rope  off  her  port 
quarter.  The  breeze  had  now  sunk  to  a  series  of  mild, 
unconnected  puffs,  and  the  junk's  progress  was  very 

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slow.  She  had  covered  half  of  the  bay's  curve,  and 
was  distant  from  us  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  when 
suddenly  the  man  in  the  bow  raised  his  cymbals  and 
brought  them  together.  As  the  cymbals  separated  for 
a  second  stroke,  the  clanging,  brassy  crash  of  the  first 
concussion  reached  our  ears;  and  with  it  a  chorus  of 
piercing  minor  falsetto  notes  from  the  fan-tan  players, 
who  had  risen  to  their  feet. 

The  junk  swung  more  and  more,  and  the  yellow  um 
brella  began  to  detach  itself  from  the  lower  port  corner 
of  the  vermilion  sail.  Two  men  ran  forward  to  the 
anchor,  and  as  the  junk  came  into  the  wind  and  to  the 
end  of  her  momentum  let  it  go  with  a  fine  splash.  The 
junk's  stern  now  faced  the  shore,  and  the  man  with 
the  yellow  umbrella  rose  and  waddled  to  the  rail.  The 
little  round  fan  disappeared  up  one  of  his  voluminous 
sleeves,  and  from  the  same  receptacle  he  drew  what 
appeared  to  be  a  double-ended  purse,  well  filled.  This 
he  flung  into  the  water — a  golden  sacrifice,  we  learned 
later,  to  the  gods  who  had  given  him  leave  to  pass  across 
their  sea.  Then  he  waddled  forward,  and,  seating  him 
self  on  the  rail,  swung  his  legs  and  the  skirt  of  his  robe 
outboard,  dropped  heavily  into  the  dinghy,  and  precipi 
tately  seated  himself.  He  was  followed  by  the  junk's 
helmsman,  who,  having  cast  loose,  dipped  with  a  long 
paddle,  and  directed  the  overladen  craft  toward  the 
shore.  The  clashing  of  the  cymbals  and  the  chorus  of 

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falsetto  wails,  which  had  never  ceased,  now  redoubled 
in  ardor  and  tempo,  and  as  suddenly  stopped  when  the 
dinghy  bumped  against  the  beach,  and  the  man  with 
the  yellow  umbrella  clambered  heavily  over  her  bow  and 
stood  upon  the  shore. 

He  turned  and  watched  the  greatly  lightened  dinghy 
as  she  returned,  powerfully  driven,  to  the  junk,  and  was 
swung  aboard.  He  stood,  a  rotund,  mauve,  and  blue 
glory  under  his  yellow  umbrella,  and  watched  the  lower 
ing  of  the  junk's  sail.  He  did  not  move  a  muscle,  only 
when  the  junk's  anchor  was  raised  and  she,  under  the 
impulse  of  long  sweeps  that  appeared  mysteriously  from 
her  sides,  began  to  crawl  forward  like  a  huge  blue  spider 
with  legs,  and  turning  to  return  upon  her  course,  he 
produced  his  little  round  fan  and  fanned  himself.  But 
until  the  junk  disappeared  behind  the  northern  horn  of 
the  bay  he  did  not  make  any  other  motion,  or  take  his 
eyes  from  her. 

Then,  however,  he  pivoted  heavily  and,  waddling 
in  a  slow  but  determined  manner,  crossed  the  beach, 
his  gorgeous  brocades  blazing  and  sparkling  in  the 
sun  as  their  folds  and  surfaces  shifted  and  rippled 
with  his  motion,  and  his  right  hand  working  the 
little  round  fan,  and  his  left  supporting  the  yellow 
umbrella,  he  began  to  mount,  slow  and  determined, 
the  tumbling  desert  dunes  of  sand  that  stood  behind 
the  beach.  Up  these  and  into  them  bobbed  the  yellow 

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umbrella  until,  after  one  last  bobbing,  it  disappeared 
from  view. 

"  I'm  going  to  find  out  where  he's  going,"  said  Mor- 
gridge. 

We  fetched  our  rifles  from  the  schooner  and,  reclimb- 
ing  the  promontory,  in  a  body  descended  to  the  beach 
on  the  other  side,  and  followed  it  to  the  point  where  its 
smooth  surface  was  broken  at  right  angles  by  the  deeply 
marked  footprints  of  the  fat  Chinaman. 

Ill 
RENEWED  FAITH 

We  followed  the  track  up  into  the  dunes,  with  Mor- 
gridge  leading  by  twenty  feet  and  Hawes  bringing  up 
the  rear.  Meff  and  I,  making  jocular  efforts  to  bur 
row  aids  to  ascending  locomotion  from  each  other, 
"scrapped"  along  in  the  middle.  I  had  hooked  a  sur 
reptitious  finger  into  Meff's  belt,  and  thereby  lightened 
myself  during  one  entire  step,  when  (it  was  just  as  Meff 
secured  his  release  by  planting  an  elbow  in  the  pit  of 
my  stomach)  suddenly  Morgridge,  who  had  reached  to 
the  higher  levels  of  the  dunes,  ejaculated  sharply  and 
sprang  out  of  sight.  We  scrambled  briskly,  all  four 
of  us,  to  be  in  the  know,  and  found  him,  his  thumbs  in 
his  armpits,  a  smile  on  his  face  (a  jocosely  assumed 

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attitude  of  low  comedy),  and  his  right  foot  planted  high 
upon  the  curve  of  a  gigantic  weather-worn  pillar  of 
granite  that  lay  in  and  out  of  the  sand. 

" Morgridge,"  said  he,  "that  great  leader  in  the  act  of 
discovering  Arundel's  landmark,  and  proving  to  a 
sceptical  world  that  Arundel  was  not  a  liar.  My  God ! 
boys,"  he  cried,  his  expression  shifting  from  one  of  low 
comedy  to  one  of  uncontainable  greed  and  excitement. 
"My  God!  boys,  we've  as  good  as  got  'em." 

"The  damn  thing,"  said  Crisp,  "has  fallen  down, 
and  that's  why  we  couldn't  see  it.  Kick  it;  somebody 
with  stout  shoes." 

"Don't  kick  it,"  said  Meff,  "it's  a  good  landmark  to 
get  itself  found."  He  stooped  and  patted  the  monolith 
as  one  pats  a  good  dog. 

"Now  this  is  where  it  stood,"  said  Morgridge,  "and 
Arundel's  map  says  the  course  is  due  east  from  the 
pedestal. 

"Direction  due  east,"  said  Hawes,  "and  distance 
forty  miles." 

Attached  to  my  watch-guard  was  a  very  accurate 
little  compass  set  in  striped  tiger's  eyes,  a  boyhood  relic 
from  Petoskey,  Michigan.  I  looked  from  this  to  the 
tracks  made  by  the  fat  Chinaman,  and  found  that, 
having  approached  the  fallen  monolith  from  a  little 
south  of  west,  he  had,  on  reaching  its  former  base, 
veered  a  little  and  pointed  his  steps  due  east.  Running 

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my  eyes  along  the  line  indicated,  I  had  presently  a 
glimpse,  very  far  off,  of  the  yellow  umbrella  bobbing 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  arid,  scorching  desert. 

"Surely,"  I  said,  "our  fat  friend  is  going  where  we 
are  going,  but  he  won't  do  any  forty  miles  in  one  clip. 
There  must  be  stopping-places  that  Arundel  missed." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Morgridge.  "We've  only  to 
follow  the  yellow  umbrella." 

"And  when  night  comes?"  objected  Crisp. 

"Stars,"  said  Hawes,  "stars  enough  to  find  this 
trail." 

We  laughed,  because  the  very  depth  of  the  fat  China 
man's  footprints  recalled  his  humorous  rotundity  and 
the  waddling,  self-satisfied  dignity  of  his  gait. 

"He  will  know  where  to  find  food  and  water,"  said 
Morgridge. 

"Seriously,  though,"  said  Meff,  "is  it  possible  that 
he  should  really  be  entering  upon  a  forty-mile  walk  in 
this  heat — at  his  size?" 

"Come  along,"  said  Morgridge. 

"His  food  shall  be  my  food,"  said  Meff;  "where  he 
rests  will  I  rest,  his  drink  shall  be  my  drink,  and  his 
rubies " 

"Shall  be  divided  by  lot,"  said  Crisp. 

We  took  up  the  trail,  floundering  heavily,  and  making 
slow  way  of  it.  We  were  unused  to  walking;  the  at 
mosphere  at  the  surface  of  the  desert  fumed  and  gyrated 

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in  the  heat.  The  sun,  now  west  of  the  zenith,  lay  upon 
the  back  like  a  garment  of  fire.  Our  sweat  laved  the 
unfertile  sand.  We  had  not,  after  the  first  quarter  of  a 
mile,  a  single  joke  or  happy  thought  left  among  us. 

At  first  we  gained  upon  the  yellow  umbrella,  and  had 
the  fat  Chinaman  looked  over  his  shoulder  there  were 
times  when  he  must  have  seen  us;  but  he  was  intent 
upon  his  journey,  and  waddled  eastward  at  a  rate  which 
was  unpleasant  to  equal,  and  so  difficult  to  exceed  that 
we  were  soon  content  not  to. 

He  preceded  us  by  half  a  mile;  in  that  atmosphere  it 
had  the  effect  of  less;  and  he  never  swerved  from  his 
course,  nor  glanced  to  the  right  or  the  left.  If  my 
sweat-stung  eyes  had  been  keen  for  beauty,  I  should 
have  admired  inordinately  the  gorgeousness  of  color 
made  against  the  silver  desert  by  the  blue  robes  and 
yellow  umbrella  of  our  celestial  friend.  But  I  was 
beneath  admiring,  and  noticed  only,  and  I  do  not  know 
why,  that,  as  the  sun  descended  lower  from  the  zenith, 
the  umbrella  was  tilted  further  and  further  to  interrupt 
its  scorching  rays,  so  that  first  the  Chinaman's  head 
disappeared  behind  its  lower  rim,  then  his  shoulders, 
and  then  his  trunk  to  the  waist. 

Thus  passed  a  number  of  hours,  but  not  the  limits 
of  that  fat  Chinaman's  endurance  and  patience. 
Momentarily  I  expected  to  see  the  yellow  umbrella  turn 
to  right  or  left  and  halt  at  some  cache  of  water  and 

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food.  But  we  were  destined  to  enjoy  no  such  blessed 
nepenthe  that  day. 

Serenely  and  indomitably  bobbed  the  yellow  um 
brella,  carrying  its  oval  of  shadow  over  innumerable 
desert  miles.  From  a  slender  crescent  it  became  a  full 
orbit  that  flamed  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

"We  must  get  nearer  before  dark,"  said  Morgridge, 
and  he  set  up  a  herculean  example  of  progress.  But 
the  fat  Chinaman,  whom  we  had  laughed  at  for  his 
labored  waddling,  began  now  to  stand  in  our  jaded 
minds  for  the  very  acme  and  poetry  of  motion.  By 
dusk  we  respected  him;  but  by  dark,  though  we  had 
gained  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  wished  ourselves  dead, 
we  pronounced  him,  petticoats  and  fat  considered,  the 
most  wonderful  walker  that  the  world  had  ever  known. 

At  dark  he  lowered  his  umbrella,  and  for  a  time  we 
lost  sight  of  him.  But  as  the  stars  brightened  we  could 
follow  his  deep  steps,  and  had  presently  a  sight  of  him, 
his  robes  silvery  in  the  starlight,  and  perceived  that  he 
had  faced  about  and  was  coming  toward  us. 

Breathing  quickly,  but  utterly  fearless,  he  waddled 
into  our  midst. 

"I  come  all  the  way  back,"  he  said,  "to  say  I  go 
altogether  forty  miles  without  no  stop.  I  think  it  very 
fine  courteous  action  to  take  all  this  trouble  for  strange 
gentlemen.  You  like  to  come  all  the  way,  I  say  nothing, 
none  of  my  damn  business.  Only  stop  to  tell  you  very 

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far  away,  all  the  way  nasty  sand.  I  very  fine  rich  China 
merchant,  and  know  how  to  give  very  fine  courteous 
advices.  You  rest  little  while  and  go  back.  I  go  on 
now,  and  wish  you  very  fine  pleasant  evening  and  return 
journey." 

He  turned  and  waddled  away. 

"Hold  on,"  said  Morgridge,  "we're  going  with  you." 

The  fat  Chinaman  paused  and  considered. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "we  all  travel  together,  more 
or  less  pleasant  way  to  travel.  Only  I  very  clever, 
experienced  fine  traveller,  and  not  put  up  with 
no  complaints  and  damn  swearing —  Like  pleas 
ant  conversation  and  all  good  friends.  We  go 
along  two  miles  in  an  hour,  and  by  and  by  finish 
journey.  You  walk  along  by  me" — he  pointed  to 
me  with  his  fat  finger.  "You  got  very  fine  respect 
able  face." 

"My  friends,"  I  said  with  a  bow,  "have  not  had  my 
advantages." 

"Rascals?"  asked  the  fat  Chinaman.  "Introduce 
their  names." 

I  presented  the  four,  and  said  my  own  name. 

"My  name  SangTi — very  fine,  revered,  damn  name," 
said  the  merchant.  "But  like  fine  poet  says  of  time, 
1  she  flies.'" 

I  walked  forward  beside  him,  not  knowing  whether 
to  laugh  at  the  jovial  absurdity  of  the  gentleman  who 

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had  given  me  a  character,  or  to  cry  because  his  indefati 
gable  waddle  was  so  hard  to  breast. 

"You  sweat  much  ?"  he  asked  in  a  friendly,  interested 
tone. 

IV 
SANG  TI 

"Do  you  often  go  where  you  are  going?"  I  asked. 

"  Go  now  for  first  time,"  said  Sang  Ti.  "  Chen  Chan 
very  fine  old  sacred  holy  place  to  end  days  in." 

"You  don't  expect  to  end  your  days  at  Ch — Chen — 
Chan?"  I  asked.  "Do  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  before  long.  You  see,  I  am  dedicate  from 
little  boy  to  the  High  Gods.  I  am  requested  to  have 
very  fine  high  successful  happy  life,  through  intercession 
of  parents  and  promises  to  the  High  Gods.  All  is  ac 
complish.  I  go  high  up;  lead  a  very  fine  benevolent 
life;  accumulate  very  large  fortune;  do  everything  just 
right;  and  now  must  pay  up  promises  made  for  me  to 
the  High  Gods  by  parents." 

The  moon  had  risen,  and  the  desert  was  as  if  flooded 
with  quicksilver  and  ink.  Sang  Ti  turned  his  fat,  jolly 
face,  beaded  with  sweat,  and  beamed  at  me.  He  thrust 
a  hand  under  the  silk  cord  that  girdled  him  at  the  waist. 

"On  forty-fifth  day  of  birth,"  he  said,  "I  hand  over 
this  cord  to  priest  of  the  High  Gods;  and  he  hand  over 

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to  me  to  hold  the  ruby  box  and  holy  shark  tooth;  and 
I  think  a  little  while  of  the  insignificance  of  life,  and  am 
soon  strangled  by  priest.  Then  I  have  paid  up." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  exclaimed,  "that  you  are 
taking  all  this  trouble  to  get  yourself  strangled  ? " 

"The  promises  of  parents,"  said  he,  "now  dead,  is 
very  fine  holy  sort  of  thing,  not  to  be  broken.  I  will 
arrange  to  have  you  and  your  friends  see  the  strangling. 
It  will  be  very  interesting,  dignified  occurrence." 

Though  Sang  Ti  enjoyed,  for  a  Chinaman,  a  very 
large  command  of  the  English  language,  I  was  conclud 
ing  that  he  either  could  not  possibly  know  what  he  was 
talking  about,  or  that  he  was  making  an  elaborate  effort 
to  "string"  me,  when,  with  the  tail  of  my  eye,  1  caught 
him  in  the  act  of  feeling  his  throat,  very  tenderly,  with 
a  fat  thumb  and  forefinger.  His  face  for  the  moment 
wore  an  expression  of  wonder  mixed  with  panic.  But 
in  a  moment  it  passed,  and  with  a  sudden  laugh  he 
lowered  his  hand. 

"You  are  considering  me  very  practical  joker,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  give  you  very  honest  man's  word  that  being 
strangled  at  forty-five  is  very  damn  miserable  joke.  I 
am,  however,  a  very  fine  philosopher." 

"What's  the  holy  shark  tooth?"    I  asked. 

"Him  not  too  good  to  touch,"  said  Sang  Ti.  "He 
take  care  of  ruby  box." 

We  labored  on  in  silence,  and  the  moon  sailed  higher 
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and  higher  in  the  heavens.  A  faint,  hot  breeze  arose 
and  blew  in  our  faces. 

"The  night r  said  Sang  Ti  "is  a  Nubian  empress; 
her  robes  are  sewed  with  diamonds;  the  moon  is  a  gong 
of  silver;  the  sand  is  the  ashes  of  broken  words.' 

"Are  you  making  that  up,  or  translating?  '  I  asked. 

"The  wind/  he  said,  "is  some  very  fine  high  god 
sighing.  I  fancy  Liang  Tsang." 

"Who  is  he?' 

"  Liang  Tsang  a  yellow  elephant  by  daylight,  but  by 
night-time  a  very  potent,  strong  god  that  blows  around 
the  world.  He  a  breeze  when  he  sigh,  and  a  wind  when 
he  groan." 

"Isn't  he  happy?"  I  asked.  "Why  does  he  sigh 
and  groan?" 

"  Because  he  an  exile.  He  can  blow  everywhere  but 
not  over  China.  But  when  the  end  of  the  world  ap 
proaches  it  is  promised  him  that  for  one  day  in  the  spring 
of  year  he  shall  be  a  violet,  with  roots  in  fertile  soil  of 
Shan-tung.  It  a  saying  of  us,  'Keep  your  promises, 
for  the  day  approaches  when  Liang  Tsang  shall  be  a 
violet  in  the  fields  of  Shan-tung,  and  the  perverted  shall 
be  divided  among  a  thousand  thousand  hells.'" 

"Does  your  creed  embrace  so  many  hells?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  simply,  "or  what  could  be  done 
with  all  Caucasian  and  European  races?  In  China- 

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man's  creed  there  is  very  satisfactory  place  provided 
for  everybody." 

"The  policy  of  the  open  door?"  I  suggested. 

"Open  to  go  in,"  he  said,  "and  shut  to  go  out." 

I  looked  over  my  shoulder  and  saw  that  our  company 
had  begun  to  straggle  badly.  Only  Meff  and  Morgridge 
were  in  easy  speaking  distance;  Crisp  was  two  hundred 
yards  behind  them,  and  another  hundred  yards  sep 
arated  Hawes  and  Crisp.  As  I  looked,  Morgridge 
called  to  me  to  stop. 

He  came  up,  followed  by  Meff,  exhausted,  angry,  and 
completely  blown. 

"This  not  a  proper  time  to  stop,"  said  Sang  Ti. 
"I  tell  you  before,  too  long  a  walk  for  you  gentlemen. 
I  see  at  once  you  not  well  bred  for  travelling.  With  me 
it  very  different  matter.  I  come  of  very  fine  old  stock; 
I  am  descended  in  straight  recorded  line  from  a  camel 
and  a  shark.  Must  get  a  long  way  before  morning; 
cooler  now." 

"We'll  halt  now,"  said  Morgridge  in  an  arrant,  angry, 
bullying  voice.  ' '  See  ?  " 

"I  got  no  time,"  said  Sang  Ti.  "You  not  able  to 
come,  I  go  alone,  wishing  you  first  very  pleasant  halt 
and  subsequent  journey." 

"No  you  don't,"  said  Morgridge,  "you  don't  lose 
this  crowd — not  in  this  desert.  You'll  rest,  yourself,  till 
we're  ready  to  go  on." 

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Sang  Ti  stood  his  umbrella  into  the  sand,  and  turned 
back  the  borders  of  his  sleeves. 

"You,"  he  said  to  Morgridge,  "are  very  uncivil,  lazy, 
selfish  damn  rascal,  and  you,  too." 

He  stood  between  Morgridge  and  Meff,  looking 
quickly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  You  interfere  with  Chinese  gentleman,  he  teach  you 
more  respectable  damn  manners."  So  saying,  and  just 
as  Crisp  was  coming  up,  he  seized  Morgridge  and  Meff 
by  the  backs  of  their  necks  and  began  to  knock  their 
heads  together.  He  finished  the  lesson  of  courtesy  by 
suddenly  jerking  in  opposite  directions  and  letting  go. 
Meff  fell  in  his  tracks,  but  Morgridge,  dropping  his 
rifle,  staggered  for  a  long  distance  before  he  came  to 
ground. 

With  a  silvery  laugh  Sang  Ti  regained  his  umbrella 
and  waddled  away. 

"I'll  kill  the  dog,"  yelled  Morgridge,  springing  with 
blazing  eyes  for  the  rifle  which  had  been  shaken  from 
his  hand. 

"No,"  said  Crisp.  And  as  Morgridge  sprang  for  the 
rifle  he  hooked  his  foot  and  threw  him  heavily.  Then 
he  sat  on  him. 

Morgridge,  with  all  the  strength  thrashed  and  pressed 
out  of  him,  could  only  wriggle  and  swear  obscurely  in  a 
whining  voice.  He  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

I  am  far  from  suspecting  Sang  Ti  of  the  fear  of  death, 
24 


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but  he  reserved  to  himself  the  choice  of  its  manner,  and 
had  dropped  in  conversation  the  hint  that  he  was  very 
earnest  to  be  strangled.  Anyway,  though  the  desert 
was  flooded  with  light  from  the  setting  moon,  he  disap 
peared  from  view  in  a  wonderfully  short  time;  and  we 
(who  were  five  fools)  slept  in  our  tracks  while  the  night 
waned,  and  woke  to  see  the  dawn  stream  up  behind  the 
eastern  rim  of  the  desert  like  a  conflagration. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  horrible  march  that  then 
began,  straight  into  the  molten  furnace  eye  of  the  sun. 
Whatever  of  moisture  was  in  us  was  sucked  out  through 
the  pores  of  our  scorching  hides  and  turned  into  dust. 
We  felt  ourselves  grow  light.  All  the  constituents  which 
had  made  human  beings  of  us  began  to  diminish  except 
two :  pain  swelled  in  our  brains,  and  in  our  mouths,  our 
tongues.  The  heat  that  we  had  endured  on  the  coast 
was  temperate  compared  to  the  blasts  of  that  inland  desert. 

We  would  have  laid  down  and  died,  or  some  of  us 
would  (Meff  was  forever  suggesting  it)  if  very  early  in  the 
morning  we  had  not  been  led  by  the  Chinaman's  tracks  to 
the  top  of  a  long  rise,  from  which  could  be  seen,  far  in  the 
distance,  what  looked  like  purple  feathers  stuck  into  the 
sand  on  the  further  length  of  apiece  of  broken  mirror,  and 
which  we  knew  to  be  trees  growing  by  a  lake.  Indeed, 
specks  of  scarlet  gleamed  among  the  feathers,  and  we 
guessed  that  they  were  roofs  upon  the  habitations  of  men. 

Forward  we  went,  and  downward  for  an  hour,  and 


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then  upward,  until  once  more  we  could  see  the  trees 
and  the  lake  and  the  roofs.  But  they  seemed  no  nearer 
than  before.  And  all  day  it  was  so. 

We  began  what  was  to  be  our  last  long  ascent.  Dur 
ing  it  the  sun  sank  so  low  that  our  shadows  reached  the 
top  an  hour  before  our  bodies.  But  the  trees  then  and 
the  lake  had  been  drawn  wonderfully  nearer. 

At  our  feet  was  spread  the  lake,  shaped  roughly  like 
a  vast  human  foot,  and  beyond  it  among  the  trees  we 
could  see  pagoda-shaped  buildings  and,  going  and 
coming,  long-robed  Chinamen,  and  little  children  and 
dogs.  We  could  hear  the  dogs.  And  as  the  dusk  deep 
ened,  braziers  began  to  twinkle  palely  here  and  there. 

It  was  dark  when  we  reached  the  lake,  and,  casting 
aside  our  weapons  and  watches,  plunged  into  it,  and 
felt  the  water  rush  in  through  our  pores  and  begin  to 
rebuild  our  wasted  tissues  and  make  rounded  men  of 
us  once  more.  After  a  while,  chin-deep  immersed  in 
deliciousness,  with  the- rapture  of  hooked  fish  that  have 
been  returned  to  their  element,  we  began  to  drink. 

V 
CHEN  CHAN 

We  walked,  dripping,  around  the  end  of  the  lake,  and 
in  close  order,  with  weapons  handy,  for  we  did  not  know 
what  reception  to  expect,  passed  down  an  avenue  of 

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ragged  travellers'  palms,  and  reached  the  first  house  of 
the  single-streeted  settlement.  In  the  doorway  of  the 
house,  smoking  a  long  thick-stemmed  pipe,  sat  Sang  Ti. 
The  water  still  running  from  our  clothes,  we  drew  up 
before  him. 

"Everybody  gone  to  bed  except  me,"  was  his  greeting. 
"  I  of  opinion  that  life  too  short  now  for  sleep.  Now  sup 
pose  you  look  about  a  bit,  and  go  back  home.  Priest  say 
this  very  unhealthy  place  for  white  men.  Only  otherwhite 
visitor  name  Arundel;  some  low  damn  thieving  rascal. 
Priest  say,  if  you  come  up,  to  say  better  go  way  again." 

"How  many  people  live  here?"  asked  Morgridge  in 
a  voice  which  he  strove  to  make  civil. 

"Maybe  about  thirty,"  said  Sang  Ti. 

"Thirty  men?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  "all  kinds." 

"You  see,"  I  said,  "we  couldn't  go  back  right  off. 
We  couldn't  walk  a  mile  more  to  save  our  souls.  We'll 
have  to  rest  a  bit." 

"Priest  not  like  that,"  said  Sang  Ti;  "but  never 
mind.  Suppose  all  stay  except  that  old  rascal."  He 
indicated  Morgridge  with  his  pipe  stem. 

"  I  guess  we'll  all  stay,"  said  Crisp  firmly. 

"  All  that  contrary  to  rules,"  objected  Sang  Ti.  "  But 
all  same  contrary  to  rules  to  use  force;  so  what  can  do  ? 
Why  you  come,  anyhow?  Maybe  you  come  to  steal 
rery  fine  High  God's  ruby  box?" 

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His  eyes  twinkled  from  one  guilt-confessing  face  to 
the  next,  and  he  chuckled. 

"Suppose,  yes,"  he  said,  "and  suppose  you  make 
off  with  ruby  box,  and  suppose  you  go  a  little 
way  and  that  uncivil  rascal" — again  he  pointed  to 
Morgridge — "feel  sudden  pain  and  die,  and  then  that 
man " 

"My  name  is  Crisp,"  said  Crisp. 

"Suppose  then  that  man  Crisp  feel  sudden  pain  and 
die,  and  so  on.  You  think  not  very  nice  ?  Ruby  box 
have  live  in  Chen  Chan  for  maybe  two  thousand  years. 
Chen  Chan  oldest  settlement  in  America.  Very  High 
God  Liang  Tsang  cross  desert  one  time,  and  have  to  put 
foot  down  once.  That  make  very  fine  lake.  All  same 
time  he  drop  ruby  box  and  holy  shark's  tooth,  and  pretty 
soon  he  cross  ocean,  and  see  junk  of  China  fisher 
men.  And  he  blow  into  junk's  sail,  and  she  go 
ashore  and  break  to  pieces ;  and  all  the  China  fisher 
men  and  wives  crosses  desert,  and  stops  at  lake  and 
builds  temple  for  ruby  box  and  shark's  tooth,  and 
then  makes  one  man  priest,  and  builds  little  holy 
village  and  call  her  Chen  Chan.  That  mean  in  Eng 
lish  'The  Footprint.'" 

"Do  many  people  come  here?"  I  asked. 

"Arundel,"  said  he,  "and  he  get  away.  That  be 
cause  he  drop  ruby  box.  Others  have  come  never  get 
away.  First  come  Mexicans,  five  hundred  years  ago; 

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then  some  Spanish  men,  and  then  Arundel,  and  then 
you.  And  I  tell  you  better  go  back,  and  leave  very 
High  Holy  God's  ruby  box  alone." 

"Could  we  go  to-morrow ?"  I  asked.  "We've  got  to 
have  food  and  rest." 

"Well,  suppose  you  stop  in  house" — he  pointed  into 
the  dark  doorway — "and  not  disturb  meditation  any 
longer.  Maybe  you  find  some  food,"  he  went  on. 
"And  by  and  by,  in  the  morning,  you  go  away." 

"Couldn't  we  wait  till  night?"  I  asked.  "It's  cooler 
going  at  night." 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "you  wait  till  after  strangulation, 
which  takes  place  ten  o'clock  sharp.  Then  you  go." 

"If  you  are  going  to  be  strangled  to-morrow,"  I  said, 
"you  are  the  calmest-minded  man  in  this  world." 

"Between  you  and  me,"  he  said,  "I  think  one  very 
damn  miserable  business;  but  parents  make  promise, 
and  what  can  do?" 

He  made  himself  as  small  as  he  could  in  the  doorway, 
so  that  we  could  squeeze  past  him  into  the  dark  house. 
It  had  but  one  room ;  and  by  good  luck  and  much  feeling 
we  found  in  one  corner  a  vast  bowl  of  cold-boiled  rice. 
Crisp  dragged  it  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and,  dip 
ping  with  our  hands,  we  gorged  ourselves,  and  one  by 
one  toppled  over  and  slept. 

I  was  wakened  by  Crisp.     It  was  broad  daylight. 

"What,"  said  Crisp,  "is  all  this  talk  about  strangling? 
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Is  he  using  a  word  that  he  thinks  means  something  else  ? 
I've  been  having  dreams  about  it  all  night." 

"The  whole  thing's  like  a  dream,"  I  said;  "but  I 
believe,  as  I  believe  in — well,  in  hell — that  Sang  Ti 
expects  to  be  put  to  death  this  morning.  What  time 
is  it?" 

"Nine  o'clock,"  said  Crisp.  We  waked  the  others, 
and  among  us  finished  the  boiled  rice.  We  had  scarcely 
done  so  when,  from  outside,  came  suddenly  the  sound 
of  persistent  pounding  on  a  brass  gong. 

We  crowded  out  of  the  house  to  find  the  twenty-five 
or  thirty  inhabitants  of  the  village — men,  women,  and 
children — in  a  group  in  the  street,  intent  upon  some 
thing  that  was  approaching  from  its  further  end.  We 
stood  aloof  from  the  little  crowd,  who,  if  they  were  aware 
of  our  presence,  gave  no  sign,  and  craned  our  necks,  to 
see  what  was  coming. 

It  was  Sang  Ti,  waddling  along  under  his  yellow  um 
brella  and  fanning  himself.  Behind  him  followed  an 
emaciated  Chinaman  in  flowing  gray  silk.  It  was  the 
latter  who  was  pounding  on  the  gong. 

As  the  procession  passed  the  inhabitants  of  the  village, 
all  the  inhabitants  turned  as  if  on  one  pivot  to  follow  it. 
And  a  moment  later  our  heads  turned  in  the  same  way. 

Sang  Ti,  with  a  jolly,  contented  expression,  and 
looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  having  reached 
a  point  a  little  beyond  where  we  were  standing,  turned 

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and  came  back,  alwayr:  followed  b/  the  man  in  gray  with 
the  persistently  pounded  gong.  This  passage  of  the 
two  up  and  down  the  village  street  was  repeated  many 
times  without  variation.  But  it  was  not  till  the  third 
trip  that  we  noticed  anything  further  about  the  man  in 
gray.  Then  we  noticed,  all  of  us  at  the  same  moment, 
that  his  little  green  cap  suddenly  loosened  about  his 
head,  rose,  perhaps  half  an  inch,  made  a  fraction  of  a 
revolution,  and  settled  back. 

Hitherto  the  procession  had  struck  me  as  grotesque  if 
not  precisely  humorous,  believing,  as  I  did,  that  Sang 
Ti's  contented  expression  was  muscular  and  not  mental, 
but  the  sudden  moving,  without  apparent  agency,  of 
the  green  cap,  was  horrible.  It  gave  me  the  idea,  I  do 
not  know  why,  that  the  cap  concealed  something  that 
was  alive  and  unclean. 

The  procession  and  the  gong-beating  was  continued 
until  nearly  ten  o'clock.  Then,  as  Sang  Ti  made  his 
usual  turn  just  below  where  we  were  standing,  the  gong 
ceased  and  was  followed  by  a  silence  peculiarly  ac 
cented.  Sang  Ti  passed  up  the  street,  followed  by  the 
man  in  gray,  whose  cap  suddenly  moved  again,  and  by 
the  whole  population  of  the  village,  even  the  chow  dogs. 

And  we,  as  unnoticed  as  if  we  had  been  invisible, 
made  haste  to  follow  in  the  wake. 

The  yellow  umbrella  halted  in  front  of  a  dark-red 
pagoda  of  stained  and  carved  wood.  Sang  Ti  furled  it 

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and  thrust  it,  point  down,  into  the  sand  at  one  side  of  the 
steps  that  led  into  the  pagoda.  Then  he  passed  through 
the  door,  and  we  could  see,  as  the  steps  elevated  him, 
that  with  his  hands  he  was  unfastening  the  silk  cord 
which  girdled  his  waist. 

Inside  the  pagoda,  or  temple,  there  was  not  much  light. 
We  found  ourselves  in  a  high-ceilinged  red  room  about 
forty  by  thirty.  At  the  upper  end,  on  a  high  granite 
pedestal,  sat  a  hideous  bronze  god,  blurred  by  smoke 
which  rose  from  a  blue-and-white  bowl  on  his  knees. 
Against  the  walls  of  the  place  were  ranged  long  poles 
of  polished  teak,  finished  at  their  tops  with  enormous 
images,  scroll-sawed  out  of  shining  brass;  masks, 
roosters,  turtles,  scorpions,  dragons,  and  strange  fruits. 

Immediately  in  front  of  the  pedestalled  god,  and 
facing  us,  sat  Sang  Ti  in  a  vast  teakwood  chair.  He 
continued  to  wear  his  jolly,  contented  expression,  but 
allowed  his  eyes  to  rest  on  no  one. 

The  chair  in  which  he  sat  had  the  central  panel  of 
its  back  prolonged,  so  that  its  top  extended  several 
inches  above  his  head  and  projected  on  either  side. 
This  back  piece  was  pierced  to  the  top  with  two  series 
of  holes,  each  about  an  inch  in  diameter,  parallel  to 
each  other  and  perhaps  six  inches  apart.  It  looked 
like  an  enormous  cribbage  board. 

Sang  Ti  handed  his  silk  cord  to  the  man  in  gray,  and 
the  latter,  thrusting  its  ends  through  two  convenient 

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and  opposite  holes,  and  stepping  behind  the  chair, 
drew  them  until  the  half  loop  of  the  cord  lay  loosely 
across  Sang  Ti's  throat. 

Then  he  knotted  the  loose  ends,  and,  producing  in 
some  sleight-of-hand  manner  a  golden  casket  incrusted 
with  rubies  of  all  qualities,  from  pigeon  blood  to  pale 
pink,  placed  it  in  Sang  Ti's  hands.  Sang  Ti  lowered 
his  eyes  and  examined  the  casket.  A  very  slight  shiver 
passed  through  his  fat  frame,  and  he  shifted  his  feet 
uneasily. 

The  priest  now  thrust  under  the  knot  at  the  back  of 
the  loop  a  long,  heavy  rod  of  stained  ivory,  and  gave  it 
a  quick  twist  from  left  to  right.  The  loose  loop  became 
tight  across  Sang  Ti's  throat,  and  at  a  second  twist  half 
disappeared  in  his  flesh. 

A  horrid  choking  noise  was  forced  from  his  half-open 
mouth,  and  he  shot  at  me  a  sudden  look  of  heart 
breaking  appeal  that  brought  my  rifle  to  my  shoulder. 

But  I  was  not  so  quick  as  Morgridge.  In  that  con 
fined  place  the  crack  of  his  rifle  was  like  the  detonation 
of  a  small  cannon.  The  place  filled  with  smoke  and 
the  sound  of  scurrying  feet. 

We  gathered  about  Sang  Ti  when  the  smoke  envelop 
ing  him  had  lifted,  and  found  that  the  bullet  meant  for 
the  strangler  had  been  aimed  too  low.  The  top  of 
Sang  Ti's  skull  was  split  down  the  middle,  and  only  the 
loosened  cords  kept  him  from  falling  forward.  But  the 

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bullet,  nevertheless,  had  done  its  appointed  work,  for 
the  priest  lay  behind  the  chair,  shot  through  the  dia 
phragm,  and  a  great  red  stain  was  spreading  over  the 
front  of  his  gray  robes. 

And  now  a  very  horrid  thing  happened.  From  under 
the  priest's  cap,  loosened  by  the  fall,  crawled  a  little  dust- 
colored  snake  with  a  venomous  head,  and  ran  at  Mor- 
gridge.  Morgridge  struck  at  the  reptile  with  the  butt 
of  his  rifle,  but  not  quickly  enough.  He  screamed  as  its 
fang  pierced  his  boot,  and  fell  to  the  floor  as  if  struck 
by  a  thunderbolt. 

The  snake,  turning,  darted  for  the  pedestal  on  which 
the  god  sat,  but  not  in  time  wholly  to  escape  the  butt  of 
Crisp's  rifle.  Dragging  a  broken  tail  it  disappeared 
into  a  crack  between  the  pedestal  and  the  floor. 

We  looked  at  Morgridge.  He  was  purple,  horrible. 
He  might  have  been  dead  for  a  week.  Then  we  ran — 
God,  how  we  ran — through  the  village  and  out  into  the 
desert.  We  ran  until  Meff  began  to  call  from  far  in  the 
rear  that  he  could  run  no  more.  We  waited  till  he 
came  up,  and  hated  him  for  delaying  us.  But  when 
we  found  that  even  in  the  first  burst  of  panic  he  had 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  snatch  the  ruby  box,  we 
began  to  praise  him  and  clap  him  on  the  back. 

We  passed  it  from  hand  to  hand  and  wondered  what 
the  rubies  would  bring. 

''  I  think  Arundel  overrated  them,"  I  said. 
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"  Yes,"  said  Meff .  "  But  aren't  some  of  them  corkers  ? 
Look  at  that  fellow." 

"The  light-pink  ones,"  said  Hawes,  "aren't  worth 
much  more  than  glass." 

"It  ought  to  bring  fifty  thousand,"  I  said.  "See 
what's  inside." 

Hawes  found  the  catch,  and,  as  he  raised  the  lid, 
suddenly  screamed  and  flung  the  box  high  into  the  air. 
Over  and  over  it  turned,  and  there  whirled  free  from 
it  a  little  snake,  and  the  two  fell  at  a  distance  from  each 
other.  But  the  fate  of  that  snake  was  sudden;  turn  and 
dart  as  he  would,  bullet  after  bullet  grazed  him  and 
tossed  him  on  spurts  of  sand.  He  was  torn  to  pieces 
in  five  seconds,  and  we  turned  to  Hawes.  He  had 
found  the  time  to  thrust  his  bitten  finger  into  his  mouth, 
and  that  was  all.  He  was  dead  as  a  stone. 


VI 

CRISP  AND  MEFF 

The  first  impulse  of  us  three  survivors  was  once  more 
to  bolt.  But  where,  or  to  what  purpose  ?  About  and 
about  were  the  scorching  undulations  of  desert.  Behind 
the  ill-omened  visage  of  Chen  Chan,  where  death  lurked 
under  men's  caps  and  in  the  reliquaries  of  their  gods. 
Ahead,  but  so  far  that  it  could  not  be  reached  by  any 

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sudden  panic-born  effort,  lay  the  ocean  and  escape.  If 
we  were  to  get  away  at  all  it  could  only  be  by  slow-sus 
tained  exertion,  directed  by  the  quiet  mind.  I  think 
Meff  was  the  first  to  realize  this. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  we  had  better  rest  for  a  few 
minutes." 

"We  ought  to  bury  poor  Hawes,"  said  Crisp.  But 
one  glance  at  the  violet  bloated  corpse  was  enough. 
No  man  with  a  stomach  could  have  handled  it.  There 
was  left  upon  it  no  trace  of  a  comrade  through  many 
vicissitudes.  Personality,  that  so  often  lingers  after 
death  and  so  long  resists  the  chemistry  of  the  grave,  was 
gone  from  it,  and  had  left  nothing  of  the  friend.  The 
eyes  were  repelled,  and  the  muscles,  that  might  have 
scraped  a  hollow  in  the  sands,  were  turned  to  water. 

The  ruby  casket  lay  at  a  distance.  Meff  caught  it  up 
(not  before  a  cautious  examination  with  the  muzzle  of 
his  rifle),  and  we  did  not  sit  down  to  rest  until  we  had 
placed  a  long  undulation  of  the  desert  between  us  and 
the  corpse  of  Hawes. 

Our  situation  called  for  discussion.  Whether  to 
strike  circuitously  for  the  broad  track  which  we  had 
made  in  coming,  or  directly  for  the  sea;  whether  to  push 
through  in  one  frantic  march,  so  as  to  keep  the  start 
already  made  over  possible  pursuit;  or  to  rest  betimes, 
one  to  watch  while  two  slept,  and  to  trust  to  our  rifles 
in  case  of  attack  by  the  looted  villagers.  We  agreed, 

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finally,  to  find  our  way  to  the  schooner  by  compass 
rather  than  waste  time  by  tedious  indirections,  and  if 
we  had  the  endurance,  as  we  surely  had  the  impulse, 
to  make  one  march  of  it.  We  thought  by  so  doing  to 
have  suffered  less  in  the  end.  These  matters  being 
ordered,  we  got  to  our  feet  and  set  our  faces  to  the  west. 

For  the  first  hour  Meff  carried  the  ruby  casket;  but 
after  that,  for  it  was  heavy  and,  having  no  handles,  an 
akward  package,  we  took  turns.  It  was  wonderful, 
and  turn  by  turn  we  noticed  it,  what  a  handicap  that 
small  lump  of  treasure  proved  to  the  locomotion  of  the 
individual  who  carried  it.  Invariably  he  fell  behind, 
with  lagging  legs,  and  at  heart  a  petulance  that  under 
mined  his  resolution  to  go  on.  Had  the  carrier  of  it 
alone  been  to  consult  it  would  soon  have  been  aban 
doned  by  the  way.  Its  value  was  problematical.  In 
the  ultimate  distribution  of  the  gems  incrusting  it  we 
were  sure  to  be  cheated,  and  meanwhile  it  was  awkward 
to  hold,  heavy  to  carry,  and  a  diminisher  of  speed. 

Of  our  subsequent  march  that  day  there  is  nothing  to 
record  but  weariness,  until  about  an  hour  before  sun 
down  there  was  formed,  by  those  agencies  of  nature  which 
play  tricks  with  the  eyes  of  men,  far  to  the  north,  a 
mirage.  We  beheld  against  the  sky  a  range  of  the  desert 
across  which,  his  grass-green  robes  girded  about  his 
loins,  there  moved  upon  a  course  parallel  with  our  own 
the  wavering,  yet  distinct  and  gigantically  magnified, 

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image  of  a  Chinaman.  We  had  but  a  minute's  view 
of  him,  vast  and  shadowy,  like  a  storm  cloud,  or  some 
vengeful  and  evil  genius  out  of  a  dream,  and  then, 
presto,  the  desert  refractions  altered  and  the  image 
vanished.  For  the  first  time  in  our  desert  wanderings, 
either  going  in  or  coming  out,  we  felt  cold — cold  to  the 
marrow.  That  the  vast  size  of  the  Chinaman  was  an 
hallucination  we  knew,  but  we  knew  also  that  an  actual 
man  must  have  been  the  basis  for  the  magnification, 
that  his  course  was  parallel  to  our  own,  and  his  sudden 
appearance  in  the  heavens  an  illegible  but  disquieting 
portent.  Had  but  one  man  of  Chen  Chan  had  the  hatred 
to  dog  our  steps?  Or  had  a  council  decreed  that  to 
wrest  the  casket  and  perhaps  our  lives  from  us  but  one 
man  was  necessary  ?  If  the  latter,  and  a  certain  fateful 
significance  in  the  mirage  impelled  us  to  adopt  it,  what 
occult  power  could  he  possess  to  hold  our  vigilance  and 
our  rifle  practice  so  cheap?  And  might  we  not  with 
certainty  look  for  him  to  strike  in  that  hour  of  darkness 
which  would  precede  the  rising  of  the  moon  ?  In  one 
presumption  only  was  there  any  grain  of  comfort :  that, 
forebodings  notwithstanding,  he  might  be,  like  Sang  Ti, 
a  solitary  desert  voyager  intent  upon  a  destiny  in  no  way 
commingled  with  our  own.  But  conscience  told  us 
that  this  was  far-fetched  presumption,  and  we  moved 
uneasily  forward,  with  roving  and  scared  eyes. 

To  have  been  witness  to,  and  part  of,  so  many  shock- 
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ing  deaths;  to  be  bearing  the  fruits  of  an  unjustifiable 
theft;  and  to  have  for  accompaniment  to  our  march  a 
fateful  and  constant,  although  invisible,  presence,  was 
a  torture  to  the  mind  and  conscience.  But  it  had,  too, 
the  effect  of  compelling  a  rate  of  progress  that  had 
otherwise  been  impossible,  and  casting  a  certain  reti 
cence  into  the  demands  made  upon  us  by  hunger  and 
thirst. 

Well,  the  dark  hour  before  moonrise  came  and  passed. 
Nothing  happened.  The  moon  rose,  dripping  light, 
and  sailed  toward  the  zenith.  Nothing  happened.  And 
we  began  to  believe  in  such  slender  promises  of  security; 
to  go  forward  with  less  determination,  and  to  suffer 
acutely  from  emptiness,  parchedness,  and  fatigue.  So 
that  when  Meff  made  the  proposition  to  rest,  and  him 
self  offered  to  keep  the  first  watch,  Crisp  and  I  were  only 
too  willing.  A  man  is  seldom  permitted  to  remember 
at  just  what  advance  of  weariness  his  mind  ceases  to 
act,  and  he  goes  to  sleep.  But  of  the  present  occasion 
I  seem  to  remember  the  exact  point.  I  saw,  with  an  eye 
of  the  mind,  the  unfortunate  Sang  Ti  sitting  in  the  temple 
to  be  strangled ;  I  heard  from  Meff  a  kind  of  contented 
grunt;  I  shifted  my  right  arm  the  better  to  sustain  my 
head,  and  at  that  instant  fell  asleep. 

I  was  awakened,  I  think,  by  the  moonlight  stealing 
under  the  brim  of  my  hat  and  shining  upon  my  closed 
eyes.  I  woke,  I  know,  with  a  kind  of  dread  catching 

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at  my  heart.  I  sat  up  and  saw  that  his  promise  of 
vigilance  had  been  beyond  Meff's  strength  to  keep.  He 
lay  upon  his  back  with  his  face  completely  covered  by 
his  hat.  The  fingers  of  his  right  hand  were  clasped 
tightly  about  one  end  of  the  ruby  casket.  There  were 
no  grounds  for  the  feeling  of  dread  with  which  I  had 
waked.  Yet  the  feeling  abode.  It  was  the  feeling  that 
a  guilty  man  has  who  believes  rather  than  knows  that 
he  is  being  watched.  I  looked  beyond  Meff,  across  the 
desert,  and  my  heart  froze.  I  had  seen — I  could  swear 
it — for  one  fleeting  instant,  a  yellow  face  that  ducked 
away  behind  a  near-by  ridge  of  sand. 

I  seized  my  rifle  and  rushed  to  the  point  at  which  it 
had  vanished.  From  there  I  obtained  an  expansive 
view  of  the  desert.  But  there  was  no  form  to  show  that 
a  man  had  been  lying  in  the  sand,  nor  any  tracks  of  feet. 
I  was  mentally  staggered,  and,  after  rushing  a  few 
purposeless  steps  this  way  and  that,  returned,  thoroughly 
dazed,  to  my  companions.  The  noise  of  my  sudden 
upspringing  had  not  disturbed  them.  They  continued 
heavily  asleep,  and  had  not  moved  a  muscle.  Only  it 
seemed  to  me  that  Meff's  hat  had  slipped  a  little  from 
his  face;  and  as  I  looked  it  actually  shifted  a  little  more, 
and  then — to  my  horror — it  rose  a  little  and  settled  back. 
It  was  preposterous  to  think  that  Meff's  quiet  breathing 
could  so  move  the  heavy  felt.  Then,  as  if  to  settle  once 
for  all  the  agency  of  the  motion,  Meff's  hand,  that  had 

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been  clasped  about  the  ruby  casket,  went  up  to  his  hat 
in  a  kind  of  petulant  way,  and  removed  it. 

Whether  it  was  Meff's  scream  or  mine  that  broke  the 
silence  I  shall  never  know.  I  only  know  that  I  was  on 
my  feet,  wildly  firing  at  a  streak  of  gray  that  hissed  as 
it  ran  and  dodged  the  spurts  of  sand  tossed  by  the 
bullets. 

Crisp  was  on  his  feet,  rifle  in  hand,  staring  wildly 
about  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried. 

"It  was  under  Meff's  hat  all  the  time,"  I  shouted 
back.  "It's  the  one  with  the  broken  tail — that  hid 
under  the  altar.  That  Chinaman  is  hunting  us  down 
with  it,"  I  shouted  on;  "I  tell  you  he  is.  Damn  him! 
We're  goners — goners.  Look  at  Meff!" 

But  it  was  not  good  to  look  at  Meff. 

"Which  way  did  it  go?"  said  Crisp  in  a  sombre 
voice. 

"That  way,"  I  said.  "You  can  see  the  track;  see 
how  the  broken  tail  had  to  drag." 

"You  missed  it — of  course." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "of  course.  I  nearly  got  it  once. 
But  I  didn't,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Except  it  will 
come  back.  It's  following  us.  It  and  that  Chinaman. 
We  must  hurry  now.  We  must  hurry.  We  mustn't 
stop  again,  and  we  must  look  back  all  the  time." 

Crisp  stopped  and  picked  up  the  ruby  casket. 
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"We  must  leave  that,"  I  said,  "it  isn't  ours,  you 
know,  Crisp.     You'll  leave  it,  won't  you,  Crisp?" 
"No,"  said  he.     "By  God!" 

VII 
CRISP 

But  the  sun,  rising  hot  upon  our  backs,  found  me  in 
a  saner  condition  than  Crisp.  For  hours  he  had  been 
cursing  and  swearing  because  he  was  thirsty;  but  now 
he  began  to  talk  with  a  kind  of  crazy  boastf  ulness,  saying 
that  he  was  not  the  man  to  go  without  water  when  there 
was  plenty  of  it  to  be  had  for  the  mere  seeking.  He 
knew  the  signs,  he  said,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  them 
would  lead  me  to  a  spring  hole.  I  needn't  be  afraid; 
he  would  see  to  it  that  I  had  a  good  drink.  He  even 
warned  me  against  drinking  too  fast.  "When  we 
strike  water,"  he  said,  "you'll  be  for  rushing  in  and 
swigging  a  bucket,  but  mind  what  your  uncle  says, 
and  don't.  First  you  want  to  moisten  a  rag  and  suck 
it,  and  when  you  get  used  to  that  you  can  swallow  a 
few  drops,  and  then  after  you  begin  to  swell  a  bit  you 
can  negotiate  your  bucket."  And  so  on  all  the  long 
hours.  His  eyes,  wide  and  glassy,  roamed  the  horizon 
in  search  of  signs,  and  toward  noon  he  began  to  mistake 
hillocks  of  sand  for  vegetation,  and  I  was  obliged  to 

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join  with  him  in  long  zigzags  that  ended  in  disillusion 
and  wasted  precious  time.  To  have  gone  against  him 
in  his  craziness  might  have  ended  murderously.  There 
was  no  good  in  his  eye.  After  a  while  he  began  to  visit 
his  disappointments  upon  me;  to  curse  me  because  the 
green  bushes  were  sand,  and  to  say  that  I  ought  to  have 
told  him  so  in  the  first  place.  Several  times,  too,  for  he 
would  not  suffer  me  to  carry  it,  he  dropped  (impelled, 
I  think,  by  a  kind  of  insane  mischievousness)  the  ruby 
casket,  and  we  had  to  go  back  for  it.  It  was  beyond 
patience.  But  I  was  not  man  enough  to  cross  him,  or 
to  say  what  I  thought. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  and  pointed  to  the  right. 

"Well,  my  boy,"  he  began,  "what  did  I  tell  you? 
Are  those  green  bushes  or  not  ?" 

I  could  see  none,  but  before  I  could  say  so  he  broke 
out  violently: 

"Don't  lie  to  me.  Say  'yes'  or  'no,'  but  don't  lie. 
If  you  lie,"  he  went  on  with  a  very  horrid  expression, 
"  I  will  kill  you.  Now,  then,  which  is  it,  bushes  or  not  ?  " 

It  entered  my  mind  to  shoot  him  down,  and  perhaps 
I  made  a  threatening  motion.  Anyway  he  sprang  at  me, 
wrenched  the  rifle  from  my  hands  and  retreated  warily. 

"You're  gone  crazy,"  he  said,  and,  rather  kindly,  "a 
drop  of  water'll  fix  you  up.  Now  you  watch  out  for 
that" — here  he  flung  the  ruby  casket  at  my  feet — "and 
I'll  go  fetch  you  a  drop  of  water.  Sorry  you're  crazy." 

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He  turned  and,  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  a  gun  under 
each  arm,  started  away  toward  his  imaginary  patch  of 
green.  But  was  it  imaginary — this  last  patch?  Or 
was  my  mind,  too,  going?  It  seemed  to  me  at  one 
moment  that  there  was  a  patch  of  green,  at  the  next  that 
there  was  not.  I  stood  irresolute,  and  rubbed  my 
swollen  eyes,  blinked,  and  then  made  a  step  or  two  after 
Crisp.  But  he  had  developed  a  wonderful  acuteness  of 
ear,  and  heard  me. 

"You  stay  there,"  he  shouted,  "or  I'll  fix  you." 

I  stood  and  watched  his  slow  course  toward — yes, 
it  was  a  patch  of  green.  Of  the  color  I  was  now  as  sure 
as  Crisp  had  been,  but  of  the  substance,  no.  If  it  was 
vegetation — a  sudden  fear  gagged  me  for  a  moment, 
and  then  I  shouted  to  Crisp. 

"Look  out!"  I  yelled.     "It's  silk!" 

I  saw  his  head  turn  and  he  called  to  me. 

"Water,"  he  called,  "it's  water." 

But  it  was  not  water,  and  Crisp,  blinded  by  his 
infatuation,  walked  straight  up  to  the  Chinaman  of  the 
mirage,  who,  in  a  girt-up  green  robe,  had  risen  in  his 
path.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  Chinaman  made  a 
gesture  with  his  hand,  as  of  a  man  casting  something 
quietly  on  the  ground,  and  then  I  saw  that  Crisp  had 
flung  the  rifles  from  him,  and  was  running  toward  me 
with  frantic  leaps  and  bounds.  He  was  sane  enough 
now,  poor  fellow,  and  no  less  aware  than  I  of  the  gray 

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death  that  struck  at  his  heels.  I  had  one  moment  of 
clear  vision.  The  Chinaman  had  vanished.  With  a 
scream,  that  still  rings  in  my  ears,  and  in  a  shower  of 
sand,  poor  Crisp  went  down,  and  then  there  was  dark 
ness  in  my  eyes,  and  I  was  running,  running  desperately, 
and  clasping  something  heavy  to  my  breast. 

In  my  frenzied  panic  I  must  have  snatched  up  the  ruby 
casket,  for  when  I  came  to  my  senses,  how  much  later  I 
do  not  know,  but  soon,  for  I  was  still  desperately  running, 
I  had  it  clutched  with  one  aching  hand  to  my  breast.  I 
had  been  running  up  a  long  incline  of  the  desert,  but 
the  impulse  of  terror  came  to  an  end,  and  I  stopped  short. 
There  was  no  sweat  in  me  to  run  out;  but  I  glowed  and 
burned  like  a  furnace,  and  for  a  long  time  my  only  vision 
was  a  kaleidoscope  of  crazily  swirling  white  dots.  I 
looked  behind  me  when  my  vision  had  cleared,  but  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  sand,  blazing  in  the  sun. 

I  climbed  then  very  slowly  a  few  inches  to  the  step, 
to  the  top  of  the  rise,  and  saw  before  me,  very  far,  be 
tween  hills  of  sand,  segments  of  the  blue  and  tranquil  sea. 

VIII 
THE  CHINAMAN  IN  GREEN 

Had  I  been  alone  in  the  desert  I  would  have  had  eyes 
for  nothing  but  those  placid  and  refreshing  stretches  of 
blue;  but  it  was  peopled  for  me  and  haunted:  by  the 

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ghosts  of  comrades,  and  by  the  Chinaman  in  green  who 
hunted  me,  and  by  the  broken-tailed  snake  that  he 
could  loose  against  me  when  he  conceived  that  the 
hour  of  his  opportunity  had  struck.  I  must  have  cut 
a  grotesque  and  horrible  figure  of  fear  and  caution; 
halting  to  look  behind  with  wild  eyes;  starting,  stop 
ping;  sucking  at  the  hot  desert  air,  now  breaking  for  a 
few  yards  into  a  lumbering  run;  and  now  dragging  my 
feet  as  if  to  each  there  had  been  riveted  a  ball  and  chain. 
So  a  guilty  man,  and  one  hounded  by  fear,  might  act  in 
the  night-time  or  the  dusk,  in  a  city  street,  convinced 
that  in  each  dark  doorway,  or  behind  each  corner,  the 
fearful  lurked  to  spring  upon  him.  But  here  was  I  so 
acting  in  broad  sunlight,  in  a  region  that  for  miles  in 
every  direction  was  open  to  the  eye  like  a  book;  levelish 
and  free  of  cover  toward  every  point  of  the  compass, 
and  still  I  advanced,  starting,  cowering,  running,  halt 
ing  like  an  actor  of  melodrama  rehearsing  a  role  of  terror. 
The  direction  that  I  followed  thus  stageily  intersected 
at  last  the  broad  trail  that  our  little  company  had  made 
on  its  march  to  Chen  Chan.  Here  were  the  deep 
footprints  of  Sang  Ti ;  the  shuffled  marks  of  Morgridge's 
big  feet;  Crisp's  firm  and  even  tread;  Meff's  small  and 
neat  impress;  the  long  stride  of  Hawes;  and  here  I 
had  gone  on  well-arched,  buoyant  feet.  Of  all  that 
company  I  only  could  now  write  my  progress  in  the 
sands ;  I  only  lived  on  for  a  time. 

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At  another  time  that  broad  and  tragic  spoor  nad 
turned  me  aside  to  break  a  fresh  and  unsuggestive  path; 
but  now  I  had  a  sense  of  companionship  with  it,  and 
followed  it  feeling  no  longer  so  utterly  lonely,  afraid,  and 
alone. 

I  passed  the  fallen  monolith,  and  saw  in  the  bay,  half 
full  of  tide,  the  schooner,  riding  in  safety,  and  the 
schooner's  boat  moored  to  the  beach  of  the  promontory 
by  a  staked  oar.  On  board  that  schooner  was  water — 
food — home.  I  had  an  exhilaration  of  escaped  danger 
that  lent  me  wings.  I  ran  along  the  hard  beach  toward 
the  boat  and  my  feet  splashed  in  the  advancing  rim  of 
the  tide.  There  was  a  breeze  in  my  face,  and  my 
fears  were  blown  from  me  and  fell  behind.  I  shouted 
as  I  ran 

It  was  but  half  a  dozen  strong  strokes  to  the  schooner. 
I  snatched  up  the  ruby  casket  from  the  seat  where  I 
had  lain  it,  and  sprang  aboard,  and  found  myself  face 
to  face  with  the  Chinaman  in  green.  His  robes  were 
dripping  sea  water,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  smile  on 
his  lips.  In  one  hand,  held  tenderly  as  a  girl  holds  a 
pet  bird,  was  the  little  gray  snake.  White  lids  covered 
its  eyes,  and  its  broken  tail  hung  from  between  his 
fingers  and  dangled  listlessly  like  a  bit  of  string.  The 
smile  on  the  Chinaman's  face  wavered  and  broadened. 
There  was  a  kind  of  friendliness  in  it.  I  smiled  back 
at  him.  And  when  he  held  out  his  other  hand,  open,  I 

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placed  in  it  the  ruby  casket.  And  he,  gently  and 
quietly  as  a  girl  might  slide  a  necklace  into  a  jewel-box, 
slid  into  it  the  little  gray  snake,  dead  now,  for  what 
reason  I  know  not,  and  closed  the  cover  with  a  faint 
snap. 

I  ferried  him  to  the  shore,  and  stood  watching  him 
until  he  had  disappeared  over  the  brow  of  the  desert 
with  his  face  toward  Chen  Chan. 


48 


II 

PARADISE  RANCH 


PARADISE   RANCH 


During  the  five  years  that  it  had  served  him  as  home, 
work,  and  recreation,  the  Paradise  Ranch  had  seemed 
a  real  paradise  to  Emmanuel  Mason  and  Jim  Stanley, 
his  partner  during  those  years,  a  kind  of  better  angel. 
The  ranch  was  a  masculine  paradise;  two  thousand 
acres  of  rich  meadows  and  black  forest  looking  boldly 
forth  between  two  barren  hills  upon  the  open  sea, 
planned,  toiled  for,  worked,  cultivated,  inhabited,  and 
owned  by  men.  The  trade-winds  blowing  up  the  little 
valley  had  never  given  occasion  to  a  member  of  the 
gentler  sex  to  snatch  with  one  hand  at  her  petticoats 
and  with  the  other  at  her  hat.  The  lamps  of  the  long 
white  ranch-house  had  never  looked  upon  the  festive 
dance,  nor  had  the  moon  ever  discovered  a  pair  of 
lovers  seated  hand  in  hand  upon  the  long  veranda.  The 
lamps  had  never  looked  upon  anything  gayer  than 
a  poker  game,  nor  the  moon  upon  anything  more  excit 
ing  than  men  who  smoked  and  talked.  Seasons  came 

51 


PARADISE  RANCH 

and  went.  But  as  yet  no  woman  had  found  her  way 
into  the  Paradise  Ranch,  and  if  one  had  she  would  have 
been  politely  shown  the  way  out. 

But  a  change  was  coming;  a  fact  which  the  telegram 
that  Emmanuel  Mason  held  open  in  his  hand  betrayed 
— a  telegram  that  had  been  brought  fifteen  miles  over 
the  hills  from  the  railroad  at  the  gallop. 

Stanley  had  been  East  anent  a  will  in  which  he  had 
figured  to  no  great  profit,  and  the  telegram  was  from 
him: 

My  wife  and  I  will  be  in  San  Mateo  Monday.  Send  over  a 
team  to  meet  us. 

That  was  the  whole  matter,  a  sudden  violent  blow 
between  the  eyes  for  which  the  recipient  had  been  in  no 
way  prepared.  The  marriage  must  have  been  very 
sudden — as  all  marriages  are — but  the  courtship  must 
have  been  like  chain  lightning;  shorter,  perhaps,  as 
Mason  thought  with  the  flicker  of  a  smile,  than  the 
ceremony.  The  circumstances,  however,  did  not  mat 
ter  to  him  in  the  least;  it  was  the  fact.  Paradise  was 
to  be  invaded,  as  of  old,  by  a  woman,  and  the  next 
comer,  of  course,  would  be  a  serpent — a  serpent  of  old 
habits  laid  aside,  old  times  discontinued,  furniture 
moved  to  new  positions,  tobacco  frowned  on  (perhaps) ; 
liquor  relegated  to  the  nearest  saloon,  fifteen  miles  away; 
wholesome  meals  turned  into  finical  courses,  and  last, 

52 


PARADISE  RANCH 

and  worst,  the  lazy  Sunday  shave  changed  into  a  matu 
tinal  or  vespertine  regularity. 

Emmanuel  Mason  mourned  for  lost  friends.  He 
must  share  "Jim,"  the  sweet-tempered,  the  big-boned, 
the  guileless,  the  gentle,  with  another.  When  he  had 
worked  all  day  and  become  tired  and  dirty  and  lazy — 
he  would  have  to  wash  and  dress.  When  the  "heap 
pain,"  as  they  called,  it,  should  pierce  him  from  temple 
to  temple,  he  could  no  longer  stamp  the  veranda  till 
dawn,  Jim's  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  swear.  When 
the  "heap  pain"  waked  him  in  the  night  he  could  no 
longer  thrust  open  Jim's  door  and  call  upon  the  com 
forter  to  come  with  him  out  under  the  stars,  and  talk 
to  him  lest  he  should  go  mad.  That  door  must  not  be 
opened  at  random  any  more,  it  must  be  knocked  upon. 
And  the  spacious,  plastered,  airy  room  beyond  looking 
south-westward  upon  the  sea,  would  that  receive  a  coat 
of  paper  and  come  to  be  referred  to  as  the  " blue"  room 
or  the  "pink"? 

With  the  exception  of  the  "  heap  pain "  all  had  been 
paradise  till  now;  it  would  become  purgatory,  and  the 
pain  remaining  would  make  the  latter  hell.  The  "  heap 
pain,"  hitherto  the  only  cloud  on  the  horizon,  had  never 
occurred  with  sufficient  frequency  to  cause  Mason  any 
real  alarm.  It  came  two  or  three  times  a  year,  usually 
during  the  rains,  remained  a  day  or  two,  hurt  fearfully, 
and  went.  The  pain  was  similar,  only  much  more 

53 


PARADISE  RANCH 

violent,  to  that  which  is  known  as  a  "stitch  in  the  side." 
Mason  had  it  in  the  head,  from  temple  to  temple,  and 
though  he  had  consulted  doctors  its  cause  and  nature 
remained  unexplained. 

With  so  many  grounds  of  foreboding  it  was  not  un 
like  the  man  to  make  the  best  of  the  situation,  and, 
grumbling  deeply,  to  set  the  house  to  rights  from  end 
to  end.  He  decked  it  with  great  boughs  of  pungent 
bay  and  fragrant  yellow  acacia;  he  filled  it  with  roses 
and  calla  lilies;  he  straightened  the  chairs  over  and  over 
again.  He  had  a  dozen  nervous  interviews  with  Jue 
Fong,  the  cook;  he  saw  to  the  team,  the  trap,  and  the 
harness  which  were  to  go  and  fetch  the  bride  and  groom. 
He  shaved  and  donned  costly  raiment  and  intended  to 
drive  over  the  hills  for  them  himself,  and  then  came 
the  "heap  pain,"  and  sent  him  writhing  to  his  bed.  He 
lay  until  he  could  lie  it  no  longer.  He  rose  and  walked 
till  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.  He  groaned  and  blas 
phemed.  And  about  four  of  the  afternoon  the  pain 
became  worse. 

Emmanuel  Mason  clapped  a  hand  to  each  temple  and 
literally  ran  for  the  low-built  clump  of  huts  where  his 
Chinese  laborers  dwelt.  He  smote  with  his  foot  upon 
the  door  of  Sam  Ah  and  strode  in. 

"Sam,"  he  said  in  a  thick  voice,  "have  you  got  any 
opium?" 

"I  no  smoke,"  said  the  righteous  Sam  Ah. 
54 


PARADISE  RANCH 

"Who  has  some?" 

"All  boys  allee  samee,"  said  Sam  Ah.  "Him  no 
smoke." 

This  was,  of  course,  a  righteous  lie.     Mason  groaned. 

"You  don't  understand,  Sam,"  he  said.  "If  I  don't 
get  smoke  I'll  die." 

"Allite,"  said  Sam  Ah,  "me  go  city?'' 

"You  get  me  smoke/  said  Mason,  "then  you  go  to 
the  city  and  raise  hell.'' 

The  wily  one  smiled  pleasantly. 

"Allite,"  he  said. 

And  from  a  room  which  contained  absolutely  nothing 
but  a  pallet  bed,  a  mattress  and  the  bare  insides  of 
four  walls,  he  produced  a  pipe,  a  rectangular  can  half 
full  of  opium,  matches,  a  tiny  spirit  lamp  with  a  glass 
shade  to  keep  the  flame  steady,  and  a  sort  of  thin  metal 
skewer  to  roll  the  pill  on. 

"I  don't  know  how,  Sam." 

Sam  Ah  indicated  his  bed  with  a  hospitable  gesture. 

"You  sabe  lie  still,"  he  said.     "I  make  pill." 

Presently  he  had  lighted  the  lamp;  gathered  on  the 
end  of  his  skewer  what  appeared  to  be  a  lump  of  soft 
tar,  and  fell  to  rolling  it  in  the  flame.  Instantly  an  in 
describable,  penetrating  odor  (that  seems  as  if  it  ought 
to  choke  one,  but  doesn't)  filled  the  room.  The  opium 
sputtered  and  spat,  and  the  lump  seemed  to  shrink  into 
itself  and  become  a  shape.  Every  now  and  then  Sam 

55 


PARADISE  RANCH 

Ah  took  it  from  the  flame  and  gave  it  a  quick  telling 
mould  with  his  slim  fingers.  When  he  was  satisfied 
with  its  shape  and  consistency  he  slipped  it  into  the 
tiny  bowl  of  the  pipe,  let  it  cool  for  a  few  seconds  and 
withdrew  the  skewer.  Mason  put  the  pipe  in  his  mouth 
and  inhaled  the  smoke,  while  Sam  Ah  kept  the  pill 
burning  by  a  constant  application  of  the  lamp. 

"More  fast,"  he  commanded,  "more  in." 
Mason  puffed  as  rapidly  and  deeply  as  he  could.     The 
burning  pill  guttered,  sputtered,  and  roared  like  a 
miniature  volcano. 

"More  fast,"  commanded  Sam  Ah,  and  in  hah*  a 
minute  the  smoke  was  finished,  and  Mason,  gagged  and 
gasping,  was  conscious  of  no  wonderful  dream  or  any 
pleasant  effect  whatever.  His  head  was  shot  with  pains 
as  before.  Meanwhile  Sam  Ah  was  rolling  another  pill. 
But  scarcely  had  Mason  drawn  a  breath  of  the  second 
smoke  into  his  big  lungs  than  the  tormenting  pain 
left  him.  He  pushed  aside  the  pipe,  rose  and  shook 
himself. 

"  You're  a  good  man,  Sam,"  he  said. 

"  Good  men  heap  scarce,"  said  Sam  Ah,  and  prepared 
to  finish  the  relinquished  smoke  himself. 

When  Emmanuel  Mason  came  into  the  outer  air  he 
felt  like  a  happy  child.  He  wanted  to  laugh  and  turn 
hand-springs.  A  hedge  of  artichokes  seemed  to  him  more 
beautiful  than  a  hedge  of  roses.  An  hour  later  he  was 

56 


PARADISE  RANCH 

conscious  of  a  slight  rawness  in  his  throat  and  a  slight 
headache,  but  not  the  old  torture,  nor  in  the  old  place. 
A  little  later  still  he  felt  perfectly  normal. 

Then  came  the  sounds  of  wheels  on  gravel,  a  halting 
of  horses,  and  steps  on  the  veranda.  Emmanuel  Mason 
flung  open  the  door  and  advanced  with  a  broad  smile 
of  welcome  and  outstretched  hands. 

Jim  Stanley's  wife  was  tall  and  girlish-looking.  She 
had  a  big  sweet  mouth  which  Emmanuel  Mason  had 
once  considered  beautiful.  He  started  at  sight  of  her; 
then  took  both  her  hands  in  his  and  made  her  welcome 
in  Jim's  name  and  his  own. 

"You've  not  changed  much,"  she  said. 

"But  I  never  expected  it  would  be  you." 

There  was  all  the  unnecessary  clipped  talk  of  question 
and  answer  which  the  occasion  warranted,  and  the  two 
friends  and  the  woman  went  into  the  house. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  woman  to  her  husband,  "now 
do  go  and  put  something  on  your  hands.  .  .  .  He  would 
drive,"  she  explained  to  Mason.  "He  wouldn't  wear 
gloves,  they  were  already  chapped,  and  now  look  what 
the  sun  has  done  to  them." 

Indeed,  Stanley's  hands  were  a  study  in  raw,  cracked 
red.  It  was  nothing  new  to  Mason,  however,  for  he  had 
often  seen  them  as  bad  or  worse. 

"  I  tell  him  to  put  cold  cream  on  them,"  said  the  bride. 
"There's  nothing  like  it  for  chapped  hands." 

57 


PARADISE  RANCH 

"Vaseline  is  better,"  said  the  groom  in  an  eager, 
gentle  voice.     "But  that  doesn't  do  mine  any  good." 


II 


The  men,  of  course,  altered  radically  in  their  habits 
of  life;  shaving  daily,  disposing  of  yesterday's  mud,  and 
dressing  for  dinner.  But  these  alterations  came  from  a 
natural  desire  to  please  rather  than  from  the  hounding 
of  a  woman's  tongue,  for  if  the  Ranch  had  been  at  one 
time  a  man's  paradise,  at  least  the  Eve  who  had  entered 
it  was  a  man's  woman,  so  that  nothing  of  what  Emman 
uel  Mason  had  feared  came  to  pass.  Instead,  he  was 
by  way  of  being  more  comfortable  than  he  had  ever 
been;  and  it  was  long  before  he  realized  that  to  live 
in  the  new  condition  was  no  less  dangerous  than  to  live 
in  a  house  built  over  a  sleeping  volcano.  To  this 
ignorance,  perhaps,  the  rains  which,  for  so  many  weary 
weeks,  had  been  appeasing  the  thirst  of  the  land,  and 
clothing  it  with  green  grass  and  flowers,  contributed  by 
suddenly  coming  to  an  end.  There  commenced  the  long 
dry  season  for  which  California  is  famous,  and  during 
which  every  moment  spent  out  of  doors  is  a  complete 
blessing.  All  day  the  sun  blazed  and  the  strong  salt 
trade-winds  blew  in  from  the  ocean.  Each  evening,  as 
the  sun  set,  and  the  winds  thus  shorn  of  heat  smote  the 
hot  earth,  fog  arose  along  the  whole  line  of  the  coast  and 

58 


PARADISE  RANCH 

rushed  inland.  But,  later,  the  fog  diminished  until  the 
stars  showed  through,  and  presently  all  the  glittering 
heavens  appeared.  Day  after  day,  night  after  night, 
month  after  month,  it  was  thus.  Every  drop  of  surface 
water  was  sucked  from  the  earth;  the  green  of  the  hills 
yielded  to  golden  brown;  the  soft  muddy  roads  became 
bands  of  white,  hard  as  iron.  Growing  things  rested 
from  the  labor  of  growing.  The  world  was  at  peace 
with  itself. 

It  was  not  too  hot  by  day,  nor  too  cold  by  night; 
much  that  made  for  human  calm  and  happiness  was  an 
atmospheric  condition.  There  was  no  excuse  for  mor 
bid  depression;  the  cattle  became  fat  on  the  dry  stub 
ble.  In  irrigated  districts  fruit  swelled  and  ripened. 
There  was  great  prosperity  throughout  the  State, 
merrymaking,  and  out-of-door  life.  During  this  period 
matters  progressed  peacefully  and  with  pleasantness  at 
Paradise  Ranch.  The  woman  was  firm  in  the  saddle, 
strong  in  the  surf,  and  subtle  of  tongue;  to  be  with  her 
was  to  be  gay.  And  Emmanuel  Mason  found  him 
self  thinking  that  if  he  had  his  life  to  lead  over,  he 
would  like  to  marry  her  himself.  As  a  mere  boy 
in  the  old  days  he  had  enjoyed  the  chance.  He  had 
been  her  first  fancy  and  she  his.  They  had  construed 
fancy  to  mean  love  (and  Heaven  only  knows  whether  it 
does  or  not)  and  they  had  plighted  their  troth.  Lack 
of  money  had  stood  in  the  way  of  immediate  marriage, 

59 


PARADISE  RANCH 

and  Emmanuel  Mason  had  gone  the  way  of  the  sun  to 
carve  his  fortune.  He  toiled  in  mining  camps  and  in 
lumber  camps,  drove  fence  posts,  was  partner  in  a  liv 
ery  stable,  clerk  in  a  bank,  was  by  turn  prosperous,  on 
the  verge  of  riches,  poor,  dead  broke,  and  again  pros 
perous.  At  this  stage  he  fell  in  with  Jim  Stanley,  and 
together  they  bought  Paradise  Ranch  and  other  ad 
jacent  properties,  which  they  managed  to  work  with 
much  pleasure  and  considerable  profit.  Entering  upon 
such  vicissitudes  as  a  boy,  he  was  soon  developed  bj 
them  into  a  man,  and  during  the  transition  became 
heart-whole  and  fancy-free.  It  was  the  same  with  the 
girl.  Long  separation,  as  usual,  killed  their  mutual 
fancy.  They  stopped  writing  peacefully  enough — but 
felt  as  if  they  had  quarrelled.  If  Emmanuel  Mason 
had  made  a  visit  to  the  East  he  would  not  have  called 
upon  her. 

With  all  that  he  had  gone  through  and  with  all  that 
he  had  accomplished,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Mason 
was  altogether  a  strong  man.  Free  from  restraint  and 
at  an  early  age  his  own  master,  full  of  red  blood  and 
high  spirits,  there  had  been  periods  in  his  career  which 
are  still  spoken  of  with  awe  on  the  "Barbary  Coast" 
and  similar  districts.  He  had  raised  many  kinds  of 
Cain,  painted  many  towns  red,  had  killed  a  man,  been 
co-respondent  in  a  divorce  suit,  and  achieved  a  notoriety 
which  had  been  very  difficult  to  live  down.  Good  sense, 

60 


PARADISE  RANCH 

coupled  with  the  first  intimations  that  the  "heap  pain" 
was  to  be  an  irregular  permanency,  strong  words  from 
a  physician,  and  perhaps  mature  years,  had  all  con 
tributed  to  shape  his  present  healthful  and  respectable 
form  of  existence.  He  drank  sparingly,  smoked  rather 
too  much,  and  worked  long  vigilant  shifts  in  the  open 
air.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  inherited  tell-tale 
lines  of  face,  rather  than  a  man  who  had  made  them. 
He  was  as  brown  as  his  adopted  hills  in  the  dry  weather; 
short,  broad,  erect,  gray-eyed,  and  powerful.  There 
was  something  of  the  tiger  in  his  long,  quiet  stride, 
something  of  the  hawk  in  his  glance,  and  something  of 
the  holiday  school-boy  in  his  smile. 

The  summer  at  Paradise  Ranch  brought  three  types 
of  happiness  to  three  people.  Jim  Stanley  was  happy, 
because  in  possessing  the  woman  he  loved  he  was  not 
renounced  by  the  friend  he  loved:  Emmanuel  Mason 
was  happy  because  he  liked  his  partner's  wife,  and  be 
cause  the  year  was  a  prosperous  one.  But  the  woman 
was  happy  in  a  very  different  way.  It  was  not  the 
peaceful  in  life  that  she  most  enjoyed.  She  knew  that 
Emmanuel  Mason,  who  had  once  fancied  her  and  now 
admired  her,  would  end  by  fancying  her  again.  It 
seemed  inevitable — a  kind  of  poetic  retribution  for  his 
former  neglect.  Tfo  rouse  the  dormant  fancy  intrigued 
her  mind,  amused  her,  and  made  her  happy.  Unfortu 
nately  she  did  not  realize  that  playing  with  matches  is 

61 


PARADISE  RANCH 

often  the  cause  of  a  conflagration  which  may  not  only 
destroy  one's  neighbor's  house  but  one's  own.  To 
make  matters  worse,  she  had  a  real  affection  for  her 
husband — and  did  not  love  him  in  the  least.  Therefore 
she  was  as  tow,  and  in  striving  to  set  fire  to  Emmanuel 
Mason's  heart  was  in  a  fair  way  to  consume  her  own. 

At  first  Emmanuel  Mason  thought  that  Alice  Stanley 
was  "nice,"  "sensible,"  and  "amusing."  Then  that 
her  face  was  "pretty";  then,  as  of  old,  that  her  big, 
sweet  mouth  was  "beautiful";  then  that  her  face  was 
beautiful.  And  after  that  he  began  to  carry  her  image 
in  his  mind's  eye,  and  to  shorten  his  hours  of  work  that 
he  might  be  with  her  the  more.  His  first  regret  was 
that  he  had  not  married  her  himself,  and  his  second 
was  like  unto  the  first.  He  regretted  that  she  was  not 
still  free.  "If  she  were  still  free,"  he  thought,  "I 
believe  I  would  fall  in  love  with  her."  That  under  the 
circumstances  he  might  as  readily  fall  in  love  with  her 
was  a  supposition  which  he  did  not  for  a  moment  enter 
tain.  And  it  was  not  until  the  unexpected  ending  of  a 
vacation  which  he  had  decreed  unto  himself  that  he 
began  to  perceive  danger  in  the  supposition.  The 
ending  of  that  vacation  was  in  this  wise. 

Emmanuel  Mason  was  an  ardent  and  jealous  lover 
of  fly-fishing.  Once  a  year,  sometimes  twice,  he  jour 
neyed  to  a  section  of  river  which  he  controlled  in  the  far 
Sierras,  and  fished  to  his  heart's  content.  Being  a 

62 


PARADISE  RANCH 

jealous  lover,  and  of  an  adventurous  disposition,  he 
always  went  alone,  built  his  own  camp,  and  did  his  own 
catching  and  cooking.  It  befell,  therefore,  that  a  strong 
desire  to  fish  came  upon  him,  and  his  good-bys  were 
as  brief  as  those  of  a  thirsty  drunkard  departing  for  his 
club.  It  also  befell  that  he  came  to  the  far  river,  cast 
his  fly,  and  struck  three  pounds  of  shifty  muscle,  speed, 
and  endurance.  This  had  often  happened  before,  but 
that  there  should  be  no  joy  in  the  struggle  was  an  en 
tirely  new  sensation.  All  that  day,  however,  he  fished 
conscientiously.  The  luck  ran  with  him,  the  fish  were 
big  and  strong,  but  the  old  ecstasy  was  gone.  Emmanuel 
Mason  had  left  his  powers  of  enjoyment  in  Paradise 
Ranch. 

The  next  day  he  did  not  fish  at  all.  He  sat  in  the 
shade  and  watched  the  strong,  bright  rush  of  the  river 
until  he  was  dizzy.  He  lay  on  his  back  and  regarded 
the  intricate  patterns  drawn  by  the  lofty  tree-tops  upon 
the  sky.  He  thought  upon  the  days  of  his  youth, 
neglected  opportunities,  opportunities  seized,  moneys 
made,  moneys  lost,  manly  truths,  subtle  lies,  success, 
failure,  times  of  comparative  virtue  and  times  of  rank 
vice.  He  thought  upon  his  gains  and  his  losses.  He 
thought  of  how  he  had  gained  in  experience  of  men,  in 
capital,  in  sense  of  living,  but  he  thought  also  of  how, 
in  the  gaining,  he  had  lost  the  most  precious  of  gifts — 
innocence.  He  became  melancholy  and  restless  in  the 

63 


PARADISE  RANCH 

shade  by  the  river.  A  week  before  he  had  smoked  and 
planned  with  Jim  and  Alice  for  the  future.  Now  he 
smoked  and  wondered  about  the  end.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  felt  old;  for  the  first  time  he  felt  that  most 
harrowing  and  unmanly  of  feelings,  self-pity.  A  glori 
ous  night  of  stars  came,  but  brought  with  her  no  gift 
of  sleep.  Emmanuel  Mason  thrashed  in  his  blankets 
like  a  newly  landed  fish.  He  thought  almost  with 
agony  of  what  was  and  of  what  might  have  been.  For 
hours  he  tormented  himself,  and  then  fatigue  began  to 
exert  itself,  and  from  logical  thoughts  and  facts  he 
passed  to  Spanish  castles,  and  thence  at  length  to 
dreams.  In  what  is  there  is  seldom  peace,  in  what 
was  there  is  less,  but  man  is  saved  from  madness  by 
the  thought  of  what  still  may  be. 

Emmanuel  Mason  arose  with  the  sun  and  bathed  in 
the  river.  His  face,  far  from  being  harrowed  by  the 
unquiet  night,  looked  younger  than  it  had  in  years. 
He  was  exalted  and  stimulated  by  the  unwise  dreams. 
He  burned  his  fingers  at  the  cooking  and  laughed.  He 
packed  his  blankets  and  his  rods,  and  sang  aloud.  In 
an  hour  he  was  riding  down  the  mountains  with  his 
face  toward  the  sea.  And  as  he  rode  he  laughed  and 
sang. 

Love  is  a  wonderful  and  beautiful  affair,  but  it  is 
most  beautiful  when  it  is  unalloyed  with  passion.  When 
he  who  loves  is  first  aware  of  his  love,  and  is  abashed 

64 


PARADISE  RANCH 

in  the  presence  of  his  beloved,  when  for  a  moment  the 
hardened  sinner  recovers  his  lost  innocence,  and  the 
world  seems  as  it  should  be  from  pole  to  pole,  there  is 
no  sense  of  danger,  nothing  exists  but  the  beautiful. 
And  so  it  was  with  Emmanuel  Mason.  He  was  wildly 
happy  at  finding  himself  in  love,  but  more  wildly  happy 
in  the  delusion  that  he  was  content  to  possess  his  love 
alone.  He  did  not  feel  the  slightest  temptation  to  de 
clare  it.  Jim  and  Alice  were  man  and  wife.  He  was 
their  friend.  He  loved  them  both.  He  could  not  be 
happy  away  from  them.  Therefore  he  would  go  where 
they  were  and  stay  there,  and  be,  if  he  could,  their 
good  angel.  If  ever  a  man  rode  innocently  into  an  am 
bush,  that  man  was  Emmanuel  Mason.  If  ever  a  man 
believed  that  love,  pure,  good,  and  proof  against  the 
poison  of  desire,  had  come  into  his  life,  that  man  was 
Emmanuel  Mason.  If  ever  a  man  deluded  himself,  that 
man  was  Emmanuel  Mason. 

He  reached  Paradise  Ranch  on  the  evening  of  the 
second  day,  and,  crossing  the  broad  piazza  with  his 
long,  quiet,  tiger-like  strides,  pushed  open  the  door  of 
the  living-room  and  went  in. 

Stanley  and  his  wife  were  seated  on  opposite  sides  of 
a  small  table,  reading.  They  looked  as  if  they  had  not 
spoken  to  each  other  for  hours.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Stanley  had  made  several  offers  in  the  way  of  conversa 
tion  which  had  been  rejected  without  too  much  civility 

65 


PARADISE  RANCH 

by  Mrs.  Stanley.  At  Mason's  entrance  both  rose  and 
hurried  to  greet  him.  In  both  faces  were  looks  of  real 
pleasure.  But  the  look  in  Stanley's  face  was  mingled 
with  wonder;  while,  if  a  heightened  color  and  sparkling 
eyes  are  to  be  trusted,  that  in  Mrs.  Stanley's  was  alloyed 
with  a  feminine  feeling  of  triumph. 

"But  for  Heaven's  sake  what  has  brought  you  back 
so  soon  ?  "  cried  Stanley,  grasping  his  friend's  hand. 

"Why,  he  couldn't  stay  away  from  us,  Goose,"  said 
his  wife. 

"But  the  fishing  must  have  been  bad  ?"  said  Stanley. 

"Awful,"  said  Mason,  "not  a  strike  the  second  day. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

This  statement  was  perfectly  true,  but  Mason 
blushed  in  delivering  it. 

"How  disappointing,"  said  Mrs.  Stanley.  But  she 
had  noted  the  blush  and  could  not  conceal  a  smile. 

"But  you  must  be  famished,"  said  Stanley  eagerly. 
"I'll  go  to  the  pantry  myself  and  see  what  there  is." 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  I  went  ? "  said  the  wife. 

"  No,  you  stay  right  here,  and  hear  all  about  it.  ... 
I'll  be  right  back." 

There  was  a  pathetic  awkwardness  about  Stanley 
which  belied  his  manly  qualities.  When  he  moved  he 
seemed  to  be  all  knees  and  elbows.  They  watched  him 
out  of  the  room,  and  it  is  just  possible  that  Mrs.  Stanley 
raised  her  fair  shoulders  the  least  fraction  of  an  inch. 

66 


PARADISE  RANCH 

"Why  did  you  smile  just  now,"  said  Mason  sud 
denly,  "when  I  said  that  I  didn't  get  a  bite  the  second 
day?" 

She  looked  boldly  in  his  eyes  and  read  as  in  a  primer 
what  was  written  there. 

"The  difference,"  she  said  slowly,  "between  a  man 
and  a  woman  is  that  a  man  lies  with  his  tongue  and 
tells  the  truth  with  his  eyes.  But  a  woman  lies  with 
both." 

And  she  turned  her  own  eyes  down,  and  half  covered 
them  with  their  soft  lashes.  Color  rose  in  her  cheeks, 
and  Emmanuel  Mason  realized  that  his  love  was  not  to 
be  a  solace  and  a  delight  to  his  secret  heart,  but  a 
menace  and  a  tragedy.  He  made  a  step  toward  her. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said.  "  No,  I'm  not  going  to  stay 
and  watch  you  eat  your  horrible  old  dinner.  I'm  tired 
out.  Don't  let  Jim  sit  up  too  late.  Good-night." 

At  the  door  she  turned.  Her  eyes  met  his  and 
mocked  them. 

"I'm  glad  you're  back,"  she  said  softly.  .  .  .  And 
vanished. 


Ill 


It  was  November,  but  as  yet  no  rain  had  fallen.  The 
country  was  beginning  to  feel  distressed.  Farmers 
looked  anxiously  and  often  upward  for  signs  of  clouds; 

67 


PARADISE  RANCH 

their  brows  became  puckered  from  too  much  gazing 
upon  the  blank,  blazing  sky.  In  the  reservoirs  water 
was  so  low  that  it  was  impossible  to  draw  a  clean  bath. 
Along  the  roads,  dust,  like  dirty  snow,  enveloped  the 
trees.  Even  the  dwellers  in  cities  were  tired  of  the 
bright  weather.  Alone  the  Chinese  smoked  their 
opium  and  went  with  calm  faces  and  patient  eyes 
indefatigably  about  their  business. 

Emmanuel  Mason  and  Alice  Stanley  rode  at  a  walk, 
northward,  along  the  ocean  beach.  On  the  right  hand 
the  naked  brown  hills,  baked  to  the  hardness  of  brick, 
gleamed  like  metal  in  the  sun.  Upon  the  left  hand  the 
long  blue  combers  came  unbroken  from  afar — like  regi 
ments  in  line  of  battle — and  were  broken  among  the 
shallows.  Ahead,  the  beach  extended  like  a  broad  tor 
tuous  white  road  between  the  tumbling  ocean  and  the 
steadfast  hills.  The  wind  blew  greatly  from  the 
southwest. 

"I  know  that,  in  the  world's  eyes,  what  I  have  pro 
posed  to  you  is  wrong.  I  have  been  brought  up  to 
believe  so.  I  do  believe  so.  I  have  no  defence  to 
make.  Do  I  care  ?  Care  ?  I  want  you  to  come  away 
with  me,  that  is  all.  I  want  it  with  all  my  strength. 
The  more  wrong  it  is  the  less  I  care  and  the  more  I 
want  it.  If  I  had  not  gone  away — 'way  back  at  the 
beginning  of  the  world — you  would  have  belonged 
to  me,  wouldn't  you  ?  The  situation  that  we  are  in  is 

68 


PARADISE  RANCH 

only  an   accident.     We  were  meant  for  each  other. 
You  know  it." 

"But  you  went  away,  and  we  forgot  each  other, 
didn't  we?" 

"Yes,  like  the  pair  of  young  fools  we  were.  If  I 
went  away  now,  would  I  forget?  Would  you?  You 
are  wretched  with  this — with  Jim.  For  God's  sake 
give  yourself  a  chance  to  be  happy.  Say  the  word. 
.  .  .  You're  afraid  of  conventions,  dear,  aren't  you? 
Is  that  it?  Tell  me." 

"May  be.  How  should  I  know?  I  don't  know 
what  to  think." 

"Let  me  think  for  you.  Convention  is  a  base  and 
false  fabric  that  has  been  erected  by  the  vast  majority — 
the  vast  pitiful  majority  which  has  ever  been  unable 
to  occupy  itself  with  real  issues.  Convention " 

"  I  believe  that  at  this  moment  you  love  me,  let  us  say, 
with  all  your  strength.  But  how  can  I  know  that  it  will 
last  ?  How  dare  I  think  that  it  will  ?  We  were  lovers 
once  who  met  in  after  years  as  strangers.  We " 

He  snatched  the  word  from  her  as  it  were. 

"We  are  lovers  now.  That  is  all  that  counts.  At 
this  moment  we  love  each  other.  What  is  the  use  of 
supposing  things  that  are  not  very  probable?  If  a 
shadow  should  come  between  us,  is  it  worth  antici 
pating?  And,  furthermore,  I  tell  you  that  it  can't 
come.  I  won't  let  it.  ...  We  are  lovers  now." 

69 


PARADISE  RANCH 

"Yes,  but  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  am  afraid  of  the 
shadow." 

And  of  a  sudden  their  faces  were  both  in  shadow, 
for  a  dark  cloud  blown  up  unperceived  from  the  ocean 
had  come  between  them  and  the  sun.  The  woman 
laughed  nervously  for  a  second. 

"7  told  you,"  she  said.    "  Do  you  think  it  will  rain  ?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  said  the  man  almost  roughly. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  "you  would  speak  to  me  like  that 
after  a  while.  .  .  .  No,  thank  you." 

"Alice,  dear,"  his  voice  was  all  tenderness,  "if  I 
spoke  rough,  I  wasn't  thinking  rough.  I  wasn't  think 
ing  about  rain,  I  was  thinking  how  I  love  you  and  want 
you."  He  looked  upward  with  great  humility.  "Yes, 
dear,  I  think  it  will  rain." 

"Then  we'd  better  go  back." 

As  they  turned  the  first  drop  fell.  The  rain  was 
slow  in  getting  under  way.  It  seemed  as  if  it  were  out 
of  practice,  and  not  exactly  sure  what  to  do.  And  just 
as  an  army  sends  out  scouts  and  then  skirmishers  to 
prepare  the  way  for  the  main  attack,  so  the  cloud  sent 
down  experimental  drops  and  little  showers  before 
commencing  to  pour. 

"It's  going  to  be  a  good  one,"  said  Mason;  "shall  we 
canter?" 

Both  Mason  and  Mrs.  Stanley  were  conscious  of  a 
suppressed  feeling  of  excitement.  The  wind  seemed  to 

70 


PARADISE  RANCH 

blow  stronger  and  the  surf  to  run  higher.  Even  the 
ponies  were  excited  by  the  coming  of  the  rain.  They 
began,  as  they  cantered,  to  fear  the  waves  to  which 
they  were  perfectly  accustomed;  to  prick  their  ears 
forward  and  back,  to  snort,  to  shy  at  dark  stones  and 
lumps  of  seaweed.  The  canter  became  a  gallop,  the 
gallop  a  run,  the  run  all  but  a  runaway.  And  in  the 
midst  the  cloud  let  fall  its  contents,  and  the  earth  and 
sea  rose  in  smoke  to  meet  them. 

Mile  after  mile  and  side  by  side  the  ponies  raced 
through  the  deluge.  Water,  sweat,  and  foam  poured 
from  them.  They  began  to  gasp  and  labor  in  the  sand. 
The  rain  and  the  surf  combined  in  one  deafening  roar. 

Mason  shouted  something  to  his  companion.  She 
shouted  an  answer.  It  looked  rather  than  sounded 
like  the  query,  "What?" 

"This  won't  do,"  Mason  bellowed.  It  is  not 
known  whether  she  heard  or  not;  it  is  enough  that  she 
understood.  They  reined  in  the  ponies  till  they  walked. 

Presently  the  heavens  grew  lighter,  and  the  rain 
slackened.  It  continued  to  fall  for  some  time,  but 
mingled  with  it  were  bright  rays  from  the  sun,  and 
presently  it  ceased.  The  brown  parched  hills  were 
streaming  with  little  brooks,  that  sought  ways  across 
the  beach  and  so  into  the  sea.  There  was  no  longer 
any  dust.  The  air  was  cool  and  greatly  fresh.  It  was 
as  if  nature  had  suddenly  been  cured  of  a  fever. 

71 


PARADISE  RANCH 

"Wasn't  it  glorious!     Oh,  but  I  loved  it!" 

He  looked  at  her.  Her  habit  hung  shapelessly  upon 
her.  He  only  thought  her  figure  the  better.  Her  face 
was  wet  and  her  eyes  were  still  brimful  of  rain.  He 
thought  her  face  the  more  beautiful. 

He  reined  to  the  left  until  his  knees  touched  her 
pony's  ribs.  He  slipped  his  left  arm  about  her. 

"Alice,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  kissed  you  since  I  was 
a  boy." 

If  the  madness  had  left  the  scene  it  had  not  yet  left 
the  actors. 

She  shivered  slightly  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  Then 
she  turned  her  face  toward  his;  the  big  sweet  mouth 
was  trembling.  As  their  lips  came  slowly  close  it 
seemed  to  each  as  if  the  face  of  the  other  was  half 
hidden  in  a  wonderful  mist.  One  moment  and  the 
eager  lips  would  have  met. 

Emmanuel  Mason's  head  was  suddenly  jerked  back 
on  his  shoulders.  He  relinquished  his  bridle.  His 
riding  crop  fell  to  the  ground.  He  drew  his  arm  from 
about  the  woman  he  loved  and  pressed  his  hands  to  his 
temples.  His  eyes  rolled  and  his  mouth  writhed.  His 
face  had  become  a  frightful  mask  upon  which  was 
depicted  agony  incredible. 

"For  God's  sake,  what  is  it?  What  is  it?  Can't 
you  speak  to  me?" 

A  groan  was  wrung  from  him.  It  is  possible  that 
72 


PARADISE  RANCH 

the  woman  had  not  really  loved  the  man  until  she  saw 
him  enduring  his  torture. 

He  took  his  hands  from  his  head  and  gathered  up  the 
reins. 

"Never  mind  the  crop,"  he  said.  ...  "I  have  these 
things  once  in  a  while."  He  spoke  between  clinched 
teeth,  his  face  the  color  of  dust.  "They  strike  like  hot 
iron.  It's  the  suddenness  that  .  .  .  that  hurts  .  .  . 
after  that  I  can  stand  'em." 

She  was  trembling  with  alarm  and  concern. 

"We  must  hurry  home,"  she  said. 

Emmanuel  Mason  strove  without  success  to  look 
natural  and  to  smile. 

"  First  I  want  my  kiss,"  he  said. 

"Not  now,"  she  said,  "we  must  hurry.  .  .  .  Oh, 
man,  man,  I  love  you  ...  I  love  you!" 

Again  they  put  the  ponies  to  the  proof. 

But  as  they  tore  along  the  beach  the  pain  in  his  head 
was  so  frightful  that  Emmanuel  Mason  had  no  thought 
of  the  beloved  at  his  side,  who  loved  him  and  would 
endure  all  things  for  his  sake. 

Instead,  he  thought,  with  the  intensity  of  a  mono 
maniac,  of  the  low-built  clump  of  huts  where  his 
Chinese  laborers  dwelt,  and  of  the  instant  relief  to  be 
found  in  the  quarters  of  Sam  Ah. 

And  an  hour  later,  as  he  lay  sucking  the  heavy,  hot, 
white  smoke  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  his  great 

73 


PARADISE  RANCH 

lungs,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  guttering,  sputtering 
of  the  fusing  opium  was  the  sound  of  the  rain  roaring 
about  his  ears. 

IV 

It  was  late  in  February  before  the  lovers  were  able 
to  think  of  putting  into  effect  the  plan  which  they  had 
matured  for  the  elopement.  The  rains,  long  in  coming 
and  prayed  for  in  all  the  churches,  made  up  in  profusion 
what  they  had  lacked  in  punctuality.  The  world  be 
came  green,  and  all  night  the  tree  frogs  sang  loud  and 
sweet. 

December  was  a  wet  month,  January  a  wetter.  In 
the  first  half  of  February  there  was  only  one  bright  day. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  prayers  addressed  to  God  must  have 
been  heard  by  the  devil  and  answered  in  a  spirit  of  mal 
ice.  In  particular  the  winter  was  a  hard  one  for  Em 
manuel  Mason.  He  received  and  recovered  from  at 
tack  after  attack  of  his  trouble.  But  on  each  occasion 
it  took  more  of  the  subtle  art  of  Sam  Ah  to  repulse  the 
enemy.  A  Chinaman  can  begin  young,  smoke  opium 
hard,  do  his  work,  and  live  to  be  sixty-five.  The 
toughest  white  man  will  go  to  pieces  in  a  fifth  of  that 
time.  Emmanuel  Mason  was  a  strong  man,  but  the 
pain  told  on  him  some,  and  its  cure  told  on  him  much. 
He  became  almost  a  shadow  of  himself,  haggard,  petu 
lant,  and  without  repose.  The  whites  of  his  eyes 

74 


PARADISE  RANCH 

took  on  a  yellowish  tinge,  and  it  was  noticed  that  he 
no  longer  loved  his  tobacco.  But  the  more  sick  and 
more  tragic  he  became  the  more  the  woman  loved 
him. 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  both  that  during  that  trying 
winter  they  kept  apart  as  much  as  possible  and  were 
indefatigable  in  their  attempts  to  be  nice  to  Stanley. 
Nor  was  this  a  studied  hypocrisy  of  demeanor.  They 
were  truly  sorry  for  him,  and,  incredible  as  it  may  seem, 
truly  fond  of  him.  They  were  like  a  pair  of  children 
preparing  to  run  away  from  home.  Nothing  should 
prevent  them,  but  they  were  sorry  to  go. 

Mason's  health  was  so  much  improved  during  Feb 
ruary  that  he  implored  Mrs.  Stanley  to  fix  the  hour  for 
their  departure.  And  in  the  end  she  named  the  first 
day  of  March,  on  which  date  the  big  new  steamer  of 
the  Maru  Line  was  to  sail  for  the  Orient.  Mason  made 
one  trip  to  town  to  engage  the  best  suite  of  rooms  on  the 
hurricane  deck,  and  a  second  when  the  ship  had  reached 
port  to  look  the  rooms  over  and  to  make  note  of  anything 
lacking  to  promote  Alice's  comfort  during  the  voyage. 

By  a  miracle  the  day  was  sunny  and  bright  even 
in  town.  Mason  felt  better  and  happier  than  he  had 
all  winter.  And  so  used  had  he  become  to  the  idea  of 
an  elopement  that  he  no  longer  regarded  it  as  either 
wrong  or  unusual.  He  made  an  early  start,  so  that  he 
might  return  to  the  ranch  the  same  day  and  report  to 

75 


PARADISE  RANCH 

Alice.  This  was  the  next  to  the  last  day  in  February. 
They  were  to  come  to  town  together  on  the  1st  of  March, 
and  the  ship  with  them  aboard  was  to  sail  early  in  the 
afternoon.  There  was  to  be  no  commotion.  No  bother 
about  trunks.  Alice  had  made  several  trips  to  town 
to  buy  a  new  outfit  and  new  trunks  to  pack  it  in.  For 
this  purpose  she  kept  a  room  in  the  Palace  Hotel. 
Mason  had  made  his  preparations  in  a  similar  manner. 
There  would  be  little  scandal.  Paradise  Ranch  was 
little  visited,  and  its  inhabitants  were  less  known. 
Mason  was  glad  for  himself  and  very  sorry  for  Stanley, 
that  was  all. 

He  boarded  the  steamer,  and  was  shown  to  the  suite 
which  he  had  engaged.  It  was  capacious  and  com 
fortable.  Two  bedrooms,  a  big  bathroom,  and  a 
pleasant  lounging  room  containing  a  writing-desk  and 
various  easy-chairs.  Mason  spent  some  time  in  the 
little  apartment,  fixing  its  geography  and  possibilities 
in  his  mind  so  as  to  describe  them  correctly  to  Alice. 
He  made  up  his  mind  which  of  the  bedrooms  should  be 
hers  and  which  his.  Then  he  tried  the  easy-chairs  in 
the  lounging  room,  one  after  another.  He  had  a 
thousand  pleasant  dreams  to  the  minute.  He  was  very 
happy.  At  length  having  completed  his  list  of  things 
needed,  fruit,  wine,  books,  writing  materials  (to  whom 
could  they  write,  pray?),  etc.,  he  rose  to  go.  Before 
doing  so  he  permitted  himself  a  last  look  into  the  room 

76 


PARADISE  RANCH 

which  Alice  was  to  occupy.  He  pulled  aside  the  curtain 
(the  door  was  hooked  back)  and  thought  for  a  moment 
that  he  had  mistaken  her  doorway  for  the  one  opening 
on  the  deck.  It  was  a  momentary  hallucination,  to  be 
sure,  for  there  was  the  fold-up  basin,  the  rack  with 
bottles  for  drinking  water  and  glasses  to  drink  from, 
or  to  hold  tooth-brushes;  there  was  the  brown  carpet 
whose  pattern  had  struck  his  fancy,  the  swinging  lamp, 
the  hooks  upon  which  to  hang  clothes,  and  there  was 
the  brass  bedstead  with  its  expanse«of  immaculate  sheets 
folded  back  over  a  rose-colored  counterpane,  embroid 
ered  with  the  company's  crest  and  monogram. 

Emmanuel  Mason  stepped  suddenly  into  the  room 
and  looked  upward  at  the  ceiling.  No,  the  ceiling  was 
perfectly  solid,  and  not,  as  he  had  fancied,  pierced  by  a 
skylight.  He  had  even  fancied  that  the  skylight  had 
been  left  open  and  that —  But  how  utterly  ridiculous. 
.  .  .  And  yet.  .  .  .  He  stopped  and  felt  of  the  carpet. 
It  was  perfectly  dry,  of  course.  .  .  .  And  yet.  .  .  .  But 
he  laughed  nervously  and  went  ashore. 

About  this  time  it  began  to  rain.  And  it  kept  on 
raining.  During  the  month  of  March  it  rained  thirty 
days  out  of  the  possible  thirty-one.  The  curious  thing 
was  that  day  after  day  the  rain  never  varied  in  appear 
ance  and  effect.  It  was  not  the  roaring,  black  rain  that 
comes  out  of  low-hanging,  swiftly  driven  black  clouds, 
but  the  long,  gray  rain  that  falls  from  thin  gray  clouds, 

77 


PARADISE  RANCH 

drifting  slowly  through  the  upper  strata  of  the  atmos 
phere.  It  had  the  effect  of  making  things  intensely 
damp  rather  than  actually  wet,  but  for  turning  brown 
into  green  and  producing  frogs  and  tree  frogs  it  was  in 
comparable.  For  instance,  Emmanuel  Mason  had  seen 
a  brown  carpet  whose  pattern  had  struck  his  fancy 
become  a  new  grass-green  almost  the  moment  the  rain 
struck  it.  He  remembered  that  the  carpet  was  in  a  kind 
of  bedroom,  which  he  had  left  because  the  newly  born 
tree  frogs  had  suddenly  burst  into  a  loud  sweet  singing 
which  was  intolerable  to  his  ears.  Another  peculiar 
property  of  the  rain  was  its  power  to  penetrate  opaque 
substances.  It  fell  upon  the  floors  in  houses,  as  if  there 
had  been  no  ceiling  to  protect  them,  and  turned  them 
green.  On  leaving  the  ship  he  had  made  his  way  to  the 
Palace  Hotel  and  taken  refuge  in  the  bar-room.  The 
court-yard  of  the  Palace  Hotel  is  covered  by  a  glass  dome, 
and  it  was  natural  enough  for  that  to  prove  no  obstacle 
to  the  rain,  but  that  it  should  penetrate  a  roof  and  all  the 
floors  of  a  seven-story  structure  so  as  to  reach  the  bar 
room  in  undiminished  volume  was  astonishing.  Em 
manuel  Mason  felt  a  delicacy  in  asking  the  bartender 
why  this  should  be.  Instead,  he  contented  himself 
with  saying  tentatively:  "Doesn't  it  seem  very  damp  to 
you  in  here?" 

"Not  to  me/'  said  the  bartender. 

"I  must  be  mistaken  then,"  said  Emmanuel  Mason, 
78 


PARADISE  RANCH 

and  he  shivered  slightly.  For  all  that,  he  was  convinced 
that  the  bartender  had  lied. 

Almost  from  the  first  the  rain  got  on  his  nerves.  He 
felt  that  it  would  be  absurd  to  return  to  the  country  in 
such  weather.  He  would  wait  until  the  sky  was  clear. 
Meanwhile  he  was  damp  to  the  bone,  and  really  troubled 
about  the  singularly  penetrating  quality  of  the  rain. 
He  was  afraid  of  his  old  trouble.  He  remembered  that 
in  Nevada  it  was  nearly  always  dry.  He  stepped  into 
a  rainy  ticket  office  and  inquired  the  price  of  a  ticket  to 
Reno.  He  had  not  enough  money  to  pay  for  it  and 
crossed  the  street  to  his  bank  to  draw  a  check.  Al 
though  the  ink  ran  badly,  he  managed  to  fill  in  the  blanks 
all  but  the  one  for  the  signature.  He  could  not  fill 
that,  however,  for  the  very  annoying  reason  that  he  had 
forgotten  his  name.  It  took  him  two  days  and  a  whole 
night  of  hard  thought,  during  which  he  walked  the 
streets  in  the  rain,  to  remember  it.  When  he  had  done 
so  he  hastened  toward  the  bank. 

On  the  way  he  encountered  a  tall,  slim  woman,  who 
made  an  involuntary  gesture  toward  him  with  both 
hands.  Although  she  smiled  and  had  a  big  sweet  mouth 
which  seemed  oddly  familiar  to  him,  he  was  perfectly 
sure  he  was  not  acquainted  with  her.  So  he  smiled, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  looked  upward,  and  was  for 
passing  on.  The  woman  endeavored  to  block  the  way 
and  tried  to  catch  him  by  the  sleeve.  But  that  was  a 

79 


PARADISE  RANCH 

familiarity  which  Emmanuel  Mason  did  not  propose 
permitting  to-  any  woman.  He  ducked  under  her  out 
stretched  arms  and  ran  up  the  street  like  a  big  cat. 
When  he  felt  that  he  was  safe  from  pursuit  he  laughed 
loud  and  long. 

That  same  day  he  went  to  Nevada  and  was  dis 
gusted  to  find  that  rain  was  falling  in  every  part  of  the 
desert  State.  He  left  at  once  for  Colorado,  but  there 
it  was  also  raining,  and  be  felt  obliged  to  give  it  up  after 
an  hour's  trial.  One  thing  struck  him  as  odd;  the 
fact,  namely,  that  he  met  nobody  who  carried  an  um 
brella.  He  longed  to  tell  them  to  go  in  out  of  the  rain, 
but  remembered  just  in  time  that  it  was  a  kind  of  rain 
which  it  was  impossible  to  avoid.  It  really  began  to 
worry  him.  And  why  in  the  devil  was  there  such  a 
mighty  chorusing  of  tree  frogs  in  regions  where  there 
was  not  a  tree  to  be  seen  ?  It  was  clear  to  him  after 
a  while  that  if  the  frogs  didn't  stop  singing,  and 
if  the  rain  didn't  stop  falling,  he  would  be  obliged  to 
go  mad. 

It  was  a  clever  thought  to  go  to  Quebec  and  try  a 
little  snow  for  a  change.  But  high  over  the  Plains  of 
Abraham  slowly  drifted  gray  clouds,  and  from  them 
perpendicularly  fell  the  long  gray  rain.  It  was  true  that 
the  rain  fell  upon  heavy  deposits  of  winter  snow.  But 
even  as  Emmanuel  Mason  looked  the  snow  turned  green, 
and  from  the  umbrageous  gully  by  which  Wolfe  had 

80 


PARADISE  RANCH 

made  his  immortal  ascent  there  arose  suddenly  a  great, 
sweet,  intolerable  singing  of  tree  frogs. 

As  he  thought  of  Wolfe's  immortal  ascent  the  lines 
of  Emmanuel  Mason's  face  smoothed  themselves  and 
he  smiled.  He  must  ascend.  If  there  is  rain  under  the 
clouds  there  is  surely  blue  sky  above.  A  moment  before 
he  would  have  offered  his  soul  to  the  devil  for  a  sight 
of  blue  sky,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  although  the  devil 
has  been  trying  for  years  to  make  a  corner  in  souls,  a 
sight  of  blue  sky  is  never  the  price  which  he  pays.  But 
now  there  was  no  need  of  that.  He  would  ascend  above 
the  clouds  and  owe  the  devil  nothing. 

From  the  Plains  of  Abraham  to  the  top  of  Madison 
Square  Tower  is  but  a  step  for  an  active  man,  whose 
stride  used  to  be  compared  to  that  of  a  tiger.  But  at 
that  elevation  he  was  still  beneath  the  pitiless  clouds, 
and  the  beautiful  naked  Diana  from  whom  the  wet 
dripped  was  not  potent  to  retain  him.  He  hastened  to 
Paris  (cursing  the  delay,  for  it  took  him  nearly  an  hour 
to  get  there)  and  ran  nimbly  up  the  steps  of  the  Eiffel 
Tower  until  he  reached  the  topmost  platform.  But 
still  the  clouds  were  above,  and  from  them  descended 
the  long  gray  rains,  always  at  the  same  pace,  always 
perpendicular  to  the  earth.  "God!"  he  thought,  "if  it 
would  only  fall  parallel  for  a  moment — just  a  moment!" 

He  turned  and  began  wearily  to  descend  the  steps. 
Suddenly  he  stopped  and  began  to  roar  with  laughter. 

81 


PARADISE  RANCH 

"You  fool!  You  fool!"  he  cried,  and  he  resumed  the 
descent  at  the  run.  Reaching  the  foot  of  the  tower, 
doubts  began  again  to  assail  him,  and  for  the  second 
time  he  paused.  "Of  course,"  he  said,  "to  get  high 
enough,  I  must  go  up  in  a  balloon,  but  it  takes  the  devil 
of  a  while  to  make  one — and  I  can't  wait.  Poor  Em 
manuel  Mason — can't  wait.  Because,  if  he  waits — if 
he  waits  another  minute — this  rain  will  drive  him  mad." 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  contemplated  the  second 
hand  during  one  revolution. 

"Well,  I'm  not  mad  yet,"  he  said,  and  put  back  the 
watch  in  his  pocket.  "Perhaps  I  can  hold  out  until 
the  balloon  is  made." 

He  started  to  run,  stopped,  leaned  against  a  railing, 
and  for  the  second  time  roared  with  laughter.  When 
he  had  done  laughing  he  assumed  the  attitude  of  an 
orator,  and  with  one  hand  pointing  heavenward  he 
cried  to  an  imaginary  audience  in  a  great  voice:  "And 
if  the  balloon  is  out  of  the  question,  there  yet  remains 
harnessed  for  the  service  of  man  the  eternal  principle 
of  the  balloon.  .  .  .  Why  does  the  balloon  rise?" 

It  was  night.  Three  gas  jets  flickered  through  the 
rain  and  illuminated  the  room.  Emmanuel  Mason 
locked  the  door  and  the  windows.  One  after  another 
he  blew  out  the  three  lights. 

And  then  he  lay  down  in  the  darkness  to  wait  for  the 
time  when  he  should  ascend. 

82 


Ill 

CAPTAIN   ENGLAND 


CAPTAIN   ENGLAND 

You  gentlemen  of  England, 

That  live  at  home  at  ease, 
How  little  do  you  think  upon 

The  danger  of  the  seas! 

When  the  stretch  of  waves  between  the  white  coast 
of  Britain  and  the  oaken  sides  of  the  Hynd  Horn  had 
widened  to  an  impassability  for  the  most  enduring 
swimmer,  the  two  mariners  with  pistols  in  their  sashes 
quitted  the  presence  of  Mr.  England,  to  which  they  had 
clung  with  pertinacity  ever  since  the  elegantly  buckled 
shoe  of  that  gentleman  had  first  touched  the  deck.  Mr. 
England  smiled  with  sweetness  after  the  last  disap 
pearing  hall-marks  of  his  various  misdemeanors,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  rail,  where  he  balanced  with 
niceness  and  behaved  so  alluringly  that  the  ship's  cat 
leaped  to  his  knee,  purring.  Thence  the  cat  climbed  to 
his  shoulder  and  rubbed  against  his  cheek. 

"O  cat,"  said  Mr.  England,  "in  the  course  of  your 
nine  lives,  have  you  ever  been  hanged  ? " 

The  cat  yawned,  from  the  sea-freshness,  and  elevated 
his  ample  tail. 

85 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"And  was  it  painful?"  said  Mr.  England.  "And 
were  you,  despairing,  made  to  leave  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  tabbies  to  the  machinations  of  other  toms  ? " 

Mr.  England's  delicate  hand  passed  in  caress  the 
whole  length  of  the  cat  from  his  nose  to  the  tip  of  his 
tail. 

"  In  the  midst  of  life,  O  cat,"  said  he,  "  we  are  in  need 
of  the  poets,  and 

If  she  be  not  fair  for  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be? 

But  to  be  hanged,  puss! — a  dolorous  priest — a  knot 
under  the  left  ear — a  drop — kingdom  come,  and  be 
damned  to  you!" 

The  cat  purred  loudly. 

"What  is  life?"  said  Mr.  England.  "A  shoe  too 
tight  to  wear.  What  is  death  ?  An  ineptness  of  nature. 
Let  us  die  cheerfully,  puss,  the  stem  of  a  rose  between 
our  teeth,  and  our  feet  clad  in  easy  stockings." 

Mr.  England  sighed  and  looked  back  on  that  fast- 
sinking  shore  where  he  and  his  crimes  and  the  law  had 
all  met  in  the  same  ale-house. 

"Feline,"  said  Mr.  England,  "I  am  to  be  judged 
where  I  was  born,  hanged  where  I  was  bred,  and  buried 
where  four  roads  cross,  with  a  stake  through  my  sus 
ceptible  heart,  and  a  devil  to  make  me  dream.  But  you, 
lamented  sir,  will  die  of  an  indigestion, — cat,  'ware  rat! 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

— and  be  hurled  by  the  tail  into  some  corner;  and  our 
respected  talents  will  die  with  us.  Do  you  draw  a 
lesson  from  that?  Then  down  with  you,  sir,  for  an 
ignoramus!" 

Mr.  England  shifted  his  shoulder  so  suddenly  as  to 
send  the  cat  scrambling  to  the  deck.  There  he  gradu 
ally  lapsed  from  an  attitude  of  surprised  indignation  into 
the  first  position  of  washing. 

Mr.  England  mused  with  half-shut  eyes. 

"Ah,  Mr.  England,"  said  the  captain,  "you  are  com 
fortable,  I  trust,  in  body  and  mind?" 

"The  sea  does  not  make  me  sick  in  body,"  said  Mr. 
England,  "neither  do  my  thoughts  make  me  sick  in 
mind.  But  I  am  sick  at  heart,  for  I  have  not  yet  been 
presented  to  Lady  Pelham,  and  on  that  straight,  short 
road  which  is  between  me  and  the  gallows  there  is  no 
other  petticoat  in  view." 

"Mr.  England,"  said  the  captain,  "when  I  agreed 
not  to  put  you  in  irons  during  good  behavior,  but  to 
give  you  the  run  of  the  ship,  I  made  it  clear  that  you 
were  not  to  seek  the  society  of  the  other  passenger,  and 
you  promised  a  ready  obedience  to  my  wish." 

"  But  I  thought  the  other  passenger  would  be  a  male," 
said  Mr.  England. 

"I  had  not  made  the  proviso,"  said  the  captain,  "if 
it  were  to  have  been  a  man." 

"But,  captain,"  said  Mr.  England,  "think  of  the 
87 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

ladyl  How  may  we  find  it  in  our  hearts  to  oblige  a 
lady — a  beautiful,  an  accomplished,  a  fashionable,  a 
young  lady — to  endure  a  voyage  of  inestimable  length 
and  dullness,  which  might  be  rendered  a  shadow  less 
disagreeable  by  the  society  of  one  who,  though  not  to 
the  manner  born,  has  been  to  court,  mastered  the  graces, 
the  languages,  the  poets,  the  game  of  piquet,  and  other 
arts  which,  while  not  to  be  mentioned  before  honest 
men,  have  in  no  wit  detracted  from  his  knowledge  of 
the  world  or  his  powers  of  conversation  ?" 

"To  the  point,"  said  the  captain.  "But  how  can  I 
present  to  this  lady,  whose  guardian  and  protector  I 
am  for  the  time  being,  a  man  who,  however  accom 
plished,  is  for  all  that  a " 

"Spare  me!"  said  Mr.  England,  with  a  shudder. 

"You  see,"  said  the  captain. 

"But  she  is  so  beautiful!"  said  Mr.  England. 

"I  deplore,"  said  the  captain,  "that  duty  which 
causes  me  to  disoblige  a  gentleman  whom  I  frankly  like 
and  to  deprive  a  lady,  whose  loneliness  I  myself  can  do 
little  to  alleviate,  of  his  charming  society." 

"But  surely,"  said  Mr.  England,  "there  would  be  no 
harm  done.  Has  crime  pock-marked  me?  Am  I 
loathsome?  Is  not  the  great  sweetness  of  this  lady 
proof  against  contamination  ?  I  ask  only  to  be  allowed 
to  render  her  those  delicate  attentions  which  are  her 
due,  and  to  bend  such  small  talents  as  I  may  have  to 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

the  shape  of  her  amusement.  And  can  you  not,  sir, 
consider  me  at  all?  A  few  weeks — a  short  trial — a 
speedy  hangman — a  dead  England !  How  gayly  could 
those  weeks  be  passed  in  the  nearness  of  a  beautiful 
lady!  How  one  could  disregard  the  savage  judge  in 
the  memory  of  those  weeks!  How  featly  one  could 
tread  the  scaffold  imagining  it  a  well-pitched  deck 
beneath  an  August  moon!  Would  you  send  me  on 
ward,  my  captain,  with  no  gentle  memories?  Must  I 
grave  it  to  the  recollection  alone  of  murder  and  of  sud 
den  death?  Oh,  for  a  gentle  memory  at  the  last — 
perchance  a  tender  word  to  cling  to,  perchance  a  ker 
chief  given  in  jest,  the  memory  of  a  sweet  profile  against 
the  moon,  the  memory  of  eyes  that  gave  back  stars  to 
heaven !  Such  memories  are  fresh  garlands  hung  upon 
the  dying  tree,  to  which,  in  the  very  clutch  of  death,  I 
could  whisper  with  the  poet '  Hang  there  like  fruit,  my 
soul,  till  the  tree  die.'" 

Mr.  England  turned  half  away  with  some  show  of 
bitterness. 

"Mr.  England,"  said  the  captain,  moved,  "my  duty 
is  as  plain  as  the  north  star  on  a  clear  night;  but 
in  utmost  sincerity  your  sentiments  are  tearing  my 
mind." 

"Let  me  appeal  to  her  great  graciousness,"  said  Mr. 
England.  "Let  me  tell  her  who  and  what  I  am,  and 

then,  if  she  stand  for  me " 

89 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"You  will  tell  her  who  and  what  you  are?"  said  the 
captain,  weakening. 

"My  word!"  said  Mr.  England.  "At  the  worst, 
she  can  but  spurn  and  despise  me  and  I  shall  have 
played  the  story-telling  Moor." 

"You  shall  have  your  chance,"  said  the  captain. 
"And  now,  see,  she  comes  hither." 

"Her  eyes  are  like  the  morning,"  said  Mr.  England. 
And  he  added:  "Captain,  in  the  constant  and  divert 
ing  repetitions  of  history,  it  often  occurs  that  when 
Mohammed  cannot  go  to  the  mountain — you  know  the 
anecdote  ?  I  will  lay  my  best  gilt  buckles  against  a 
half-dozen  of  your  Burgundy  that  the  lady  takes  the 
part  of  the  pirate." 

"Mr.  England,"  said  Lady  Pelham,  jestingly,  "the 
time  is  come  when  you  did  promise  to  confess  your  man 
ifold  sins  and  wickedness  before  all  men." 

The  time  was  night.  The  full  moon  like  a  round  of 
mottled  marble,  hung  in  the  heavens.  Her  sweet  light 
radiated  across  the  dancing  sea,  and  the  white  sails  of 
the  Hynd  Horn  were  lighted  by  it. 

Mr.  England  held  up  his  head  proudly,  and  Lady 
Pelham  clasped  her  pretty  little  hands  attentively. 

"Lady  Pelham,"  said  Mr.  England,  "it  is  a  poor  thing 
that  boasts  of  its  own  gallantry,  but  I  have  been  no 
stranger  to  the  giving  and  taking  of  blows,  nor  to  en- 

90 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

counters  with  wild  beasts,  of  which  some  were  lions  and 
serpents,  and  some  men.  I  ask  you  to  believe  that, 
whatever  the  fear  that  has  tugged  at  my  heart  I  have 
never  run  away.  But  now  I  would  fain  run  from  you, 
for  what  I  have  to  tell  will  lower  me  unspeakably  in  your 
gracious  sight." 

"Mr.  England,"  said  Lady  Pelham  gently,  "your 
voice  sounds  tired  and  melancholy,  like  that  of  Prince 
Hamlet  in  the  play  when  he  becomes  sickened  of  his 
part  in  life.  If  what  you  are  about  to  say  can  in  any 
way  sever  an  acquaintance  so  prettily  begun,  I  pray  that 
you  will  leave  it  unsaid.  We  are  two  young  people  in 
a  wide  ocean,  cut  off  from  each  shore  with  weeks  of 
weary  sailing  before  us.  Let  us  leave  behind  those 
things  which  have  been,  and  be  content  with  what  is. 
If  you  are  truly  gallant,  you  will  not  leave  the  queen  of 
this  ship  without  a  solitary  courtier." 

"Such  a  mantle  were  a  cloak  to  any  sin,"  said  Mr. 
England.  "But  such  shreds  of  honor  as  I  may  lay 
claim  to  require  that  I  speak.  Our  queen  must  know 
her  courtier  for  what  he  is." 

"I  will  pardon  my  courtier  in  advance,"  said  Lady 
Pelham,  "for  I  need  his  service." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  wonderful  girlish  sweet 
ness. 

"I  am  beyond  pardon,"  said  Mr.  England,  "and  for 
giveness.  I  dare  not  hope  that  those  gentle  elements  of 

91 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

which  I  am  at  this  moment  composed  can  secure  me 
toleration  after  the  monstrous  composition  that  I  have 
been.  Will  you  listen,  lady,  from  the  bitter  beginning 
to  the  bitter  end  ?  It  may  be  that  no  woman  will  ever 
listen  to  me  again." 

"I  will  listen,"  said  Lady  Pelham. 

"We  are  to  understand,"  said  Mr.  England,  "that 
all  those  littlenesses,  such  as  tears  and  laughter,  and 
crime  and  goodness,  which  go  to  make  up  the  Almighty's 
universe  were  established  by  some  primal  cause.  In 
this  way  it  is  possible  to  conceive  of  a  man  who  is  not 
answerable  for  what  he  is.  But  I  am  answerable  for 
what  I  am.  I  think  I  had  no  primal  cause.  I  adhered 
to  my  will  when  it  was  good;  I  clung  to  it  when  it  was 
wicked.  I  cannot  say  in  my  defense,  'Had  my  parents 
not  beaten  me,  I  had  not  done  thus  and  so.'  Therefore, 
Lady  Pelham,  you  are  to  judge  of  a  life  which  was  not 
made  for  a  man,  but  which  a  man  made  for  himself. 

"Down  to  the  southward,"  continued  Mr.  England, 
"there  was  an  island  of  the  sea.  Seen  from  above,  it 
was  like  an  outstretched  hand  upon  the  waters:  long, 
safe  harbors  were  between  its  fingers,  and  the  five 
knuckles  were  redoubtable  mountains,  susceptible  to 
rare  defenses — to  the  overwhelming  of  narrow  gorges — 
to  the  rolling  down  of  irresistible  rocks.  But  from  the 
ocean  that  island  was  more  sweet;  for  frothy  blue  waves 
lapped  the  white  sands  on  the  one  side,  and  to  the  other 

92 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

came  troops  of  trees  and  greenery  that  knelt  and  bowed 
like  worshippers.  In  the  harbors  of  that  island  was  a 
great  safety  and  hiding-place  for  a  certain  ship,  and  on 
the  shores  were  deep-thatched  homes  for  men.  Plan 
tains  and  many  manners  of  trees  gave  fruit;  other  trees, 
deep  shade;  swift  brooks,  cold  water;  the  mountains, 
game.  There  were  storehouses  full  of  silks  and  satins 
and  brocades,  and  spices,  and  all  manner  of  good  things. 
Many  a  chest  of  gold  and  silver  was  in  the  -secret  keeping 
of  the  strong  sands.  Dusky  women  of  the  island  made 
welcome  with  soft  voices,  and  the  captain  of  the  ship, 
who  was  a  leader  of  men,  gave  good  rule  to  that  calm 
place." 

With  a  little  sigh  of  approval  Lady  Pelham  settled 
deeper  to  the  mystery  of  listening. 

"There  was  a  ship,"  said  Mr.  England,  "so  shapely 
above  and  below  the  water,  and  served  with  such 
cunning  sails,  that  not  one  other  ship  in  all  the  world 
was  so  swift  upon  the  seas.  This  ship  was  manned  by 
a  crew  of  a  hundred  men,  and  captained  by  a  devil." 

Lady  Pelham  shifted  uneasily. 

"The  men,"  said  Mr.  England,  "were  men  of  Devon 
in  England  and  of  Portugal  and  Holland  and  Spain  and 
of  the  Americas.  In  only  two  things  was  there  simi 
larity  among  the  men :  each  had  the  heart  of  a  lion  and 
the  cruelty  of  a  snake.  But  the  captain! — oh,  the  cap 
tain!  He  was  a  rare  bird — a  pretty  gentleman  to  look 

93 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

upon,  if  you  like;  a  man  of  letters  and  breeding;  a  man 
of  easy  language,  who  could  pin  a  compliment  to  a  heart 
and  slap  his  Maker's  face  in  the  same  breath;  a  sweet 
swordsman,  a  sure  shot,  and" — Mr.  England's  voice 
rose  almost  to  a  note  of  command — "a  leader  of  men." 

A  look  of  aversion  began  to  creep  into  Lady  Pelham's 
eyes. 

"Now,  what  manner  of  kingdom  was  that,  Lady 
Pelham?"  said  Mr.  England.  His  voice  was  almost 
fierce.  "Whence  came  those  satins  and  brocades,  those 
chests  of  gold?  What  manner  of  men  lived  in  those 
deep-thatched  homes  and  sailed  that  ship  ?  What  man 
ner  of  man  was  their  captain  ?  I  will  tell  you,  Lady  Pel- 
ham.  We  were  bloody  pirates,  and  I  was  our  captain. 
We  robbed  and  murdered  on  the  high  seas.  Those  who 
despised  us  we  shot;  those  who  were  for  us  we  hanged; 
those  who  besought  us  we  hauled  down  the  barnacled 
keel.  We  made  coffins  of  ships " 

He  paused,  sweating  from  the  energy  of  his  discourse. 

Lady  Pelham  shivered. 

"Right,"  she  said;   "right;  you  have  said  enough." 

She  rose  and  swayed  slightly. 

"To  the  bitter  end — to  the  bitter  end!"  cried  Mr. 
England.  The  sweat  was  on  his  forehead  and  upper 
lip.  "I  have  your  Ladyship's  promise." 

And,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  the  woman  listened 
to  the  serpent.  He  spoke  in  a  lower,  less  shocking  voice. 

94 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"A  wave  of  us,"  said  he,  "went  up  and  over  the  side 
of  a  rich  ship.  When  all  was  finished,  and  while  the 
sea,  sucking  at  the  shattered  bows,  was  dragging  her 
down,  two  brother  sstood  in  the  cabin.  One  was  hon 
orably,  one  basely,  born.  One  was  Henry,  Lord  Clear- 
water;  one  was  Thomas  England,  pirate.  One  was  a 
kingly  boy  with  golden  hair,  and  the  pride  of  honor  and 
innocence  set  like  a  crown  upon  his  brow.  The  other 
was  a  hard  man,  whose  heart  was  set  upon  grimness. 

"'Sir,'  says  my  Lord  Clearwater,  'if  you  are  truly 
my  brother,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  take  my  life,  which 
has  become  unendurable  to  me,  now  that  I  am  connected 
with  such  vileness.  I  beg,  in  view  of  this,  that  you  will 
retract  your  statement,  in  which  case  I  can  consent  to 
live.' 

"The  boy  was  white,  and  he  shook,  for  it  was  in  his 
mind  to  take  his  own  life,  because  I  was  his  brother, 
and  he  loathed  me,  yet  he  feared  to  die. 

"'Henry,'  says  England,  'you  are  my  brother,  and 
I  will  save  you  in  spite  of  yourself.'  Oh,  the  horror  of 
it,  Lady  Pelham!  The  words  were  not  free  of  my 
mouth  when  he  shot  himself — here  in  the  forehead  he 
shot  himself,  through  the  very  crown  of  his  pride  and 
his  innocence.  I  knelt  and  kissed  the  blood  from  him, 
for  he  was  my  brother,  and  a  kingly  boy." 

Though  Mr.  England's  voice  broke  at  the  tragedy  of 
its  own  conjuration,  he  sighed  with  relief  when  he  saw 

95 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

the  look  of  aversion  go  from  Lady  Pelham.  He  went 
on  falteringly. 

"I  cut  a  lock  of  his  yellow  hair,  and  we  committed 
him  with  honor  to  the  deep.  Then  I  bade  haul  for 
England,  and  I  laid  the  lock  upon  his  mother's  knee,  and 
I  said,  'Do  not  weep,  lady,  for  he  was  a  brave  and 
kingly  boy.'"  Mr.  England  controlled  his  voice  with 
effort.  "I  turned  at  the  door  and,  looking  back,  saw 
the  gray  head  bent  over  the  yellow  hair." 

Lady  Pelham  was  crying.  Mr.  England  watched 
her  furtively. 

"Lady — lady,"  he  said,  almost  piteously,  "does  the 
bitterness  of  that  atone  a  little?  As  I  rode  down  the 
long  avenue  from  the  castle,  I  repented  of  my  shudder- 
able  life,  and  said  over  and  over  again,  'God  help  me! 
God  help  me!'" 

Mr.  England's  hand  lay  upon  the  rail,  white  in  the 
moonlight  and  frail  like  an  appeal.  Lady  Pelham 
touched  it  with  her  ringers. 

"God  help  you!"  said  she. 

Mr.  England  turned  from  her  so  that  she  might  not 
see  his  face. 

"There  is  more,"  said  he,  presently.  "It  is  the  bit 
terest  part,  for  it  is  the  death-blow  to  the  new  life  then 
begun.  In  London  is  an  ale-house  where,  it  is  said,  if 
you  sit  for  a  year  and  a  day  you  shall  see  all  the  people 
in  the  world.  There  are  famous  meetings  in  that  ale- 

96 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

house.  And  who  do  you  think  met  together  there  one 
day  ?  Why,  Tom  England  and  his  crimes  and  the  law 
they  met  there,  and,  so  help  him  God!  he  is  being  taken 
to  the  place  where  he  was  born,  to  be  tried  for  all  of  his 
crimes,  and  for  any  one  of  them  to  be  hanged  by  the 
neck  until  he  is  dead." 

He  leaned  toward  Lady  Pelham. 

"It  was  to  lay  a  lock  of  hair  upon  a  mother's  knee 
that  I  went  to  England,"  he  said.  "  Gracious,  merciful, 
and  beautiful  lady,  have  I  spoken  my  last  word  to  a 
woman  this  side  of  the  grave?" 

"  No,"  said  she,  and  hot  tears  coursed  down  her  sweet 
cheeks,  and  she  ran  below  without  another  word. 

Mr.  England  was  joined  by  the  captain,  who  had 
been  prowling  about  in  the  night. 

"Well?"  said  the  captain. 

"Captain,"  said  Mr.  England,  with  the  utmost  cheer 
fulness,  "  I  am  your  creditor  for  six  bottles -of  Burgundy. 
With  your  agreeable  and  esteemed  acquiescence  we 
will  open  one  of  them." 

And  he  added  to  himself: 

"That  was  a  saving  invention  about  the  brother." 

Infinite  compassion  of  woman;  infinite  forgiveness; 
infinite  desire  to  mould  and  make  new;  infinite  power 
to  leave  her  great,  tender,  true,  beautiful,  silly  heart  in 
the  most  brambly  places. 

97 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

Those  eyes  of  Lady  Pelham's,  which  Mr.  England 
himself  had  said  were  like  the  morning,  looked  into  the 
eyes  of  Mr.  England,  and  saw  nothing  there  of  all  that 
horribleness  which  she  had  forgiven.  She  saw  there 
only  the  purity  and  nobility  of  purpose  with  which  he 
had  promised  her  to  live  until  he  died;  and  in  the 
bottom  of  her  silly,  golden  heart,  she  said:  "He  has 
repented.  He  loves  me — he  must  be  saved." 

Behind  them  were  three  weeks  of  fair  and  foul 
weather,  a  thousand  pages  of  the  poets,  a  hundred 
games  at  piquet;  conversations  wherein  were  laid  down 
the  laws  of  life,  the  meetings  and  partings  of  true 
lovers.  Sometimes  they  had  spoken  of  death,  but  more 
often  of  the  beginnings  of  happy  lives;  sometimes  of 
the  delicate  perfections  of  verse,  sometimes  of  predes 
tination,  sometimes  of  the  champ  of  war,  but  mostly  of 
love. 

A  bright  sun  was  in  the  heaven,  a  following  wind 
was  on  the  sea,  and  between  the  Hynd  Horn  and  her 
port  was  an  ever-narrowing  distance.  But  between 
Priscilla,  Lady  Pelham,  and  Mr.  Thomas  England  was 
no  distance  at  all,  for  her  elbow  touched  his  arm,  and 
a  wisp  of  her  hair  brushed  his  cheek. 

"  Beautiful  princess,"  said  Mr.  England,  "  I  see  now, 
when  it  is  too  late,  that  the  gods  have  loved  me  all 
along,  for,  through  circumstances  too  horrid  for  another 
to  contemplate,  your  favor  has  caused  me  to  be  happier 

98 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

than  the  heir  of  a  kingdom  about  to  mount  the  royal 
throne.  I  make  it  my  hourly  duty  to  thank  God  for 
the  wealth  of  peace  which  he  has  given  me.  The  end, 
which  had  presented  itself  to  my  view  amid  surround 
ings  of  such  boundless  dishonor,  seems  now  like  the 
gentle  coming  of  night.  I  shall  bid  you  'good  night/ 
and  fall  asleep  to  dream  of  you.  But  there  will  be  no 
morning,  my  princess,  after  that  last  good  night." 

"There  must  be  morning  somewhere,"  said  Lady 
Pelham. 

"Do  you  wish  it?"  said  Mr.  England. 

"I  wish  it,"  said  she. 

"Ah,  lady,"  said  Mr.  England,  "there  is  such  bitter 
ness  in  brief  days!  How  can  you,  looking  back  upon 
the  glory  of  this  time  at  sea, — when  I  am  gone, — believe, 
in  your  heart  of  hearts,  that  I  was  a  true  penitent? 
How  easy  it  were  to  play  any  part  for  so  little  a  space! 
There  is  scarce  a  difference  between  my  case  and  that  of 
your  sinner  who,  feeling  the  tides  of  life  run  agonizingly 
out,  the  sweat  on  his  brow,  the  rattle  in  his  throat,  turns 
with  an  ecstatic  valedictory  from  his  sins  (which  he  can 
commit  no  more),  and  writhes  to  be  forgiven.  There 
is  such  doubt.  Tell  me,  lady,  that  you  believe — that 
you  believe  me  other  than  that." 

"  I  have  given  you  my  trust,"  said  Lady  Pelham. 

"Golden  heart!"  said  Mr.  England,  and  a  real  tear 
ran  down  his  cheek.  "Oh,"  he  cried,  "for  a  full  frag- 

99 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

ment  of  life  wherein  to  step  from  the  slough  that  was 
into  the  broad  thoroughfare  of  a  true  knight!  To 
march  prospering,  with  her  kerchief  on  one's  sleeve, 
with  her  eyes  looking  upon  one  from  the  high  tower, 
with  her  trust  in  one's  keep,  with  her  love  to  return  to! 
I  tell  you,  if  I  had  a  year  to  live  I  would  prove  before 
all  men  and  such  a  lady  that  chivalry  is  not  yet  gone 
from  earth,  and  that  dragons  are  still  to  be  found  in  the 
enchanted  forest." 

There  was  such  a  deep  ring,  as  of  gold,  in  England's 
voice,  and  such  an  undercurrent  of  pain  and  missed 
opportunity,  like  the  tolling  of  a  dirge,  that  Lady  Pel- 
ham's  heart  was  torn,  and  became  bursting  with  a 
desire  to  help  that  same  rebirth  of  chivalry  and  knightly 
deeds  upon  earth.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"If  I  were  Tom  England,"  she  said,  "I  would  not 
yet  give  over.  Rather  a  plank  in  the  ocean,  a  gallant 
struggle,  one  last  fight  for  that  same  year  of  life.  If  I 
were  a  leader  of  men,  I  would  not  suffer  myself  to  be 
led  meekly  like  an  ox  to  the  slaughter  by  men." 

"A  plank?"  said  Mr.  England,  looking  at  the  great 
waves.  "Ah,  lady,  not  a  plank!" 

"The  plank  was  a  figure,"  said  Lady  Pelham.  "Can 
you  not  think  out  some  stratagem — some  desperate 
chance  ? " 

"And  leave  you?"  exclaimed  Mr.  England.  "Ah, 
beautiful  princess!" 

100 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"At  the  end  of  such  a  year  as  you  spoke  of,"  said 
Lady  Pelham,  "you  could  seek  me  out,  and  come  before 
me,  haling  the  dragon  after  you." 

"And  the  reward?"  said  Mr.  England. 

"The  year  were  its  own  reward,"  said  Lady  Pelham. 

"True,"  said  Mr.  England,  dolefully.  "Then  you 
wish  me  to  escape?" 

"Oh,  I  do!"  said  Lady  Pelham,  vehemently. 

"  I  bless  you  for  that,"  said  Mr.  England.  Then  he 
looked  into  her  eyes  for  some  moments. 

"  Thank  God ! "  he  said  at  length.  "  My  lot  is  happier 
than  that  of  kings  and  emperors,  for  in  my  life  I  have 
found  one  person  I  can  trust." 

Lady  Pelham's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"And  you  will  try,"  she  said,  "for  my  sake?" 

"Listen,  dearest  lady,"  said  Mr.  England.  "It  has 
come  to  my  mind  that  when  I  am  cut  off  from  the  sight 
of  your  bright  eyes  I  must  have  leisure  wherein  to  turn 
back  my  heart  and  recollect  them.  Therefore,  being 
a  man  of  some  resource, — the  result  of  experience,  not 
boasting, — I  did  decide  to  essay  one  desperate  chance." 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Pelham.     "And  that " 

"  I  have  some  power  over  nature,"  said  Mr.  England, 
mysteriously,  "and  I  have  altered  the  course  thereof." 

"Altered  the  course  of  nature!"  said  Lady  Pelham. 

Mr.  England  took  from  a  pouch  a  piece  of  heavy 
stone,  the  color  of  lead,  and  the  size  of  a  thumb-nail. 

101 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"I  had  two  of  these,"  said  he.  "You  have  heard 
how  the  coffin  of  Mohammed  was  raised  from  the  floor 
of  his  tomb  by  the  power  of  the  roof,  which  was  lode- 
stone.  This  is  part  of  the  roof  of  Mohammed's  tomb, 
and  so  was  the  other  piece.  The  other  piece  is  now 
playing  ducks  and  drakes  with  the  mariner's  compass 
by  which  our  good  captain  confidently  thinks  he  is 
steering  the  Hynd  Horn  direct  for  the  port  where  I  am 
to  be  hanged.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  has  been  running 
in  a  somewhat  southerly  direction.  Strange  ports  offer 
strange  chances  to  those  who  are  willing  to  chance  it." 

Mr.  England  laughed  softly  out  of  pure  satisfaction. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "observe  our  astute  captain 
and  his  able  officers.  It  is  twelve  o'  the  clock,  and  they 
are  about  to  take  the  sun  with  the  sextant,  and  locate  our 
exact  whereabouts  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  But  they 
will  not  do  this,  because  our  prying  skipper  shall  find 
within  a  minute  that  his  instrument — by  the  way,  the 
only  one  now  on  board — has  been  irreparably  deranged." 

Mr.  England  smiled  blissfully  at  Lady  Pelham,  and 
hummed  from  the  ancient  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
the  lines: 

O  whare  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mine? 

"And,  thank  God,"  said  Mr.  England,  "there  is  one 
person  in  the  world  to  whom  I  can  tell  this  thing." 

102 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"You  trust  me  like  that?"  said  Lady  Pelham,  a 
tender  light  in  her  eyes. 

"I  trust  you,"  said  Mr.  England,  "more  than  I  trust 
myself." 

The  captain  and  his  officers  stood  for  a  long  time 
scratching  their  heads. 

"At  any  rate,"  the  captain  had  said  to  his  officers, 
"we  can  trust  to  our  compass,  which  is  an  excellent 
instrument  of  the  latest  pattern.  At  night  we  must 
watch  out  with  redoubled  vigilance,  lest  we  fall  a  prey 
to  some  uncharted  body  of  land.  But  it's  God's  own 
pity  that  so  pretty  a  sextant  should  have  met  with  so 
untimely  an  end." 

Though  the  nights  were  cloudy,  the  weather  held  to 
the  satisfaction  of  all  on  board,  especially  to  that  of  the 
captain  and  Mr.  England,  for  each  was  holding  himself 
responsible  for  the  navigation  of  the  ship.  Each  spent 
several  hours  a  day  in  reassuring  Lady  Pelham.  The  cap 
tain  told  her  that  the  piny  shores  of  Massachusetts  were 
dead  ahead.  Mr.  England  spoke  of  palms  and  guavas. 

"It  is  so  warm,"  said  the  captain,  sententiously,  to 
Lady  Pelham,  "because  we  are  approaching  the  New 
World,  where  it  is  warmer  than  with  us." 

"It  is  so  warm,"  said  Mr.  England,  "because  we  are 
approaching  the  equator,  where  it  is  hotter  than  in  the 
infernal  regions." 

103 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"O  Lord,"  said  Lady  Pelham,  on  her  knees,  "make 
it  right  for  me  not  to  betray  his  secret,  for  he  is  thine 
own  true  penitent,  and  I  am  thy  daughter  that  adores 
thee/' 

One  morning  the  fan  of  a  palm  was  seen  by  Mr. 
England  to  pass  to  leeward  in  the  boil  of  waters.  A 
little  later  he  showed  Lady  Pelham  a  school  of  flying- 
fishes,  and  about  noon  the  lookout  cried  to  those  on 
deck  that  he  beheld  land  under  the  port  bow.  The 
two  faces  which  Mr.  England  wore  as  the  Hynd  Horn 
bore  down  on  that  island — for  island  it  now  showed 
itself  to  be — were  of  an  exact  oppositeness.  To  the 
captain  he  showed  a  drawn  lip, — a  beginning-of-the-end 
face,  as  it  were, — to  Lady  Pelham  the  most  dancing  of 
eyes,  the  most  radiant  of  smiles.  But  if  the  expression 
of  his  face  was  joyous  when  he  turned  it  on  Lady  Pel- 
ham,  what  must  have  been  the  feeling  in  his  breast  when 
the  dim  bluish  cloud  on  the  horizon  began  to  assume 
a  familiar  shape? 

"By  the  splendor!"  cried  Mr.  England's  heart,  "I 
have  hit  the  nail  on  the  very  head." 

The  Hynd  Horn  ran  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  island, 
and  the  captain,  who  was  forward,  glass  at  eye,  sud 
denly  lurched  like  a  drunken  man.  He  made  a  new 
focus  and  looked  again. 

"My  Godl"  he  cried— "palms!" 
104 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

Mr.  England  was  at  his  elbow. 

"The  tropics!"  said  he,  sweetly. 

"This  is  the  devil,  Mr.  England,"  said  the  captain. 

"I  begin  to  think  it  is,"  said  Mr.  England.  "Sir, 
the  loan  of  your  glass." 

Mr.  England  looked  long  and  eagerly,  and  his  heart 
leaped  and  bounded,  but  he  kept  countenance. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "these  waters  are  familiar  to  me,  and 
we  are  in  imminent  danger  of  our  lives;  we  are  in  the 
midst  of  shoals  and  reefs — 

"Condemn  that  sextant!"  cried  the  captain. 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  England,  "I  beg  you  to  let  me  take 
the  wheel  before  all  is  lost." 

"  We  will  turn  back,"  said  the  captain.  He  was  dazed 
at  finding  his  ship  so  far  to  the  southward. 

"It  were  foolhardy  to  turn  back,"  said  Mr.  England. 
"We  have  no  sextant,  and  the  compass  has  proved  as 
fickle  as  woman.  I  beg  you,  sir,  let  me  take  the  wheel. 
There  is  not  a  moment  to  lose.  We  can  talk  as — as  we 
save  our  lives." 

The  two  gentlemen  hurried  aft,  and  Mr.  England 
snatched  the  wheel  from  the  helmsman's  hand. 

"Ah!"  he  sighed,  as  if  relieved  of  a  great  burden. 

"And  now,  sir,  what  do  you  intend?"  asked  the 
captain. 

"That  island,"  said  Mr.  England,  "is  a  great  putting- 
in  place  for  ships  short  of  water  and  supplies.  It  is 

105 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

inhabited  by  a  gentle  race  of — of  islanders,  who  will 
treat  us  with  courtesy.  I  propose  to  conduct  the  Hynd 
Horn  to  a  safe  anchorage,  and  there  we  must  lie  until 
some  other  ship  touches  and  we  can  beg  a  sextant.  Sir, 
I  pray  that  you  will  send  a  safe  man  forward  to  take  the 
soundings." 

"I  will  do  it  myself,"  said  the  captain.  "Sir,  you  are 
proving  yourself  a  man  of  spirit  and  resource." 

"I  think  I  am,"  said  Mr.  England  to  himself  when 
the  captain  had  gone  forward.  He  patted  the  wheel 
and  added:  "Oh,  the  simplicity  of  steering  through 
imaginary  shoals  and  reefs!" 

Presently  the  captain  cast  the  lead. 

"Mr.  England,"  he  cried,  "there  is  no  bottom." 

"Thank  God!"  Mr.  England  called  back.  "Then 
we  are  in  the  channel." 

The  Hynd  Horn  was  now  skirting  the  shore  of  the 
island  within  three  cable  lengths.  Mr.  England  still 
steered,  and  the  captain  still  cast  the  lead  and  found  no 
bottom.  Lady  Pelham  was  standing  close  to  Mr. 
England. 

"It  is  a  sweet  place/'  said  she. 

"Sweeter  than  you  know,  lady,"  said  he.  "Do  you 
notice  anything  particular  about  the  scene?" 

"Only  that  it  is  fresh  and  green  and  beautiful — a 
blessed  island!"  said  Lady  Pelham. 

"Mark,"  said  Mr.  England,  "how  the  frothy  blue 
306 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

waves  lap  the  white  sands  on  the  one  side,  and  to  the 
other  come  troops  of  trees  and  greenery  that  kneel  and 
bow  like  worshippers." 

"Mr.  England,"  cried  the  lady,  in  excitement,  "it 
is  not — it  cannot  be  your  island  ?  " 

"In  the  midst  of  doubt,"  said  Mr.  England,  "we 
must  turn  to  the  poets." 

He  raised  his  shapely  head  proudly,  and  turned  his 
eyes  on  the  lady. 

"Princess,"  he  said, 

"I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey, 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute. 
From  the  center  all  round  to  the  sea 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute." 

"You  terrify  me,"  said  Lady  Pelham,  "when  you 
look  like  that." 

"Oh,  my  lady,"  cried  Mr.  England,  "my  good,  my 
blessed  angel,  how  can  /  terrify  you  f " 

"I  have  given  you  my  trust,"  said  Lady  Pelham, 
"and  I  will  not  fear  you  any  more." 

"My  people  shall  be  your  lambs,"  said  Mr.  England. 

The  shores  kept  unfolding  great  beauties,  so  that  it 
was  a  sheer  delight  to  look  upon  them — on  the  surpass 
ing  freshness  of  the  green,  the  wonderful  whiteness  of 
the  sands,  the  slender  perfections  of  the  palms,  the 
bright-colored  flashes  from  the  flowers.  The  extreme 
coquetry  of  nature  ornamented  those  shores. 

107 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

Now  and  again  the  captain's  voice  arose  from  the 
main  chains,  where  he  was  using  the  lead: 

"There  is  no  bottom." 

Now  and  again  Mr.  England  spoke  reassuringly  to 
Lady  Pelham. 

Nature  had  done  much  to  conceal  the  narrow  mouth 
of  the  tortuous  harbor  into  which  Mr.  England  steered 
the  Hynd  Horn.  Conceive  a  bottle  from  which  a 
fragmentary  and  rotten  cork  has  been  three  parts 
drawn.  The  cork,  a  dozen  little  islands,  as  round  as 
coins,  and  densely  wooded,  was  in,  and  projected  from, 
the  neck  of  the  bottle.  These  islands  were  so  placed 
and  related  that  the  channel,  in  any  direction,  was 
blocked  by  some  one  of  them;  and  so  close  were  they 
to  one  another  and  the  main  island  that  to  even  a  near 
glance  they  gave  the  appearance  of  being  one  unbroken 
shore.  Their  inanimate  deceits  and  contrivances  so 
tricked  the  eye  that  it  was  as  if  that  Providence  which 
watches  over  the  evil-doer  had  taken  a  handful  of  ever 
lasting  dust  and  thrown  it  in  the  face  of  Justice. 

The  channel  itself  was  like  a  narrow  tidal  river:  the 
trees  on  each  bank  were  exceedingly  well  grown,  and 
formed,  with  the  various  flowery  and  thorny  creepers 
which  bound  them  together,  an  unbreached  and  im 
penetrable  wall;  for,  whereas  the  top  of  the  wood 
waved  energetically  in  the  wind  off  the  sea,  the  waters 

108 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

of  the  harbor  were  as  still  as  death,  and  the  Hynd  Horn 
seemed  to  be  advanced  less  by  the  impulse  of  moving 
air  than  by  a  kind  of  delectable  wafting. 

A  quiet  came  over  the  Hynd  Horn,  and  only  those 
men  who  were  preparing  the  anchor  spoke  at  all.  Mr. 
England,  his  lips  pressed  tightly  together  to  keep  back 
any  show  of  that  eagerness  and  triumph  which  was  al 
most  bursting  his  sides,  turned  the  wheel  to  right  or  left 
with  delicate  and  precise  movements  of  his  white  hands. 
Lady  Pelham  stood  close  beside  him.  She  was  very 
pale. 

For  a  long  time  that  ribbon  of  still  water  continued 
between  its  twin  vegetable  hedges,  and  then  came  a 
turn,  beyond  which  everything  spread.  The  channel 
opened  into  a  great  placid  fan,  dotted  thickly  with  wild 
fowl.  The  matted  trees  stepped  back  from  one  another, 
and  halted  at  stately  distances,  as  in  an  English  park. 
The  shore  ahead  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  hill,  and  dis 
covered  among  its  waving  plantains  and  traveller's- 
palms  a  well-ordered  village  of  deeply  thatched  cottages. 
But  no  atom  of  humanity  was  stirring,  and  that  land 
locked,  fan-shaped  basin,  with  its  park-like  shores, 
had  been  as  peaceful  as  paradise,  save  for  the  intrusion 
on  its  shining  surface  of  the  shape  of  an  ominously 
powerful  ship,  painted  as  black  as  the  pit. 

As  when,  at  a  game  of  pure  chance,  it  is  suspected 
that  a  certain  player  is  causing  the  intrusion  of  skill,  the 

109 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

other  players  begin  to  look  at  him  askance,  so  the 
officers  and  crew  of  the  Hynd  Horn  began  to  eye  Mr. 
England.  There  was  as  yet  no  handle  to  seize  upon; 
but  the  inhuman  silence  of  that  place,  and  the  sardonic 
power*  and  blackness  of  the  vessel  at  anchor,  worked 
upon  the  imaginings  of  men  like  unexplainable  sounds 
in  the  night  season.  All  faces  became  long  and  grave, 
save  only  that  of  Mr.  England.  Alert  and  flushed,  his 
eyes  glittered  coldly  over  the  captain,  the  officers,  and 
the  crew;  even  over  Lady  Pelham,  from  her  head  to  her 
feet,  for  he  knew  that  the  others  began  to  divine  that 
they  had  been  betrayed. 

Lady  Pelham,  poor  dove,  stood  close  to  the  snake  and 
trembled. 

"Mr.  England,"  said  the  captain,  in  a  deep  voice, 
"what  place  is  this?" 

"A  harbor,"  said  Mr.  England,  sweetly. 

"Sir,"  said  the  captain,  "I  would  feel  safer  on  the 
high  seas  without  rudder  or  compass  than  in  such  a 
harbor." 

"The  tone  of  your  statement,"  said  Mr.  England, 
"makes  the  issue  personal  rather  than  geographical. 
I  brought  you  here.  Am  I  to  understand  that 

"You  are  to  understand,"  said  the  captain,  "that  I 
have  trusted  the  lives  in  my  care  to  dangerous  hands." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  England,  contemptuously,  "and  your 
final  judgment?" 

110 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"I  reserve  that,"  said  the  captain.  "And  in  the 
meanwhile  I  will  run  no  risks.  We  will  turn  about  and 
make  for  open  sea." 

Mr.  England  stepped  back  from  the  wheel,  releasing 
the  spokes. 

"You  are  too  late,  captain,"  he  said  jauntily.  "The 
channel  up  which  we  have  come  is  now  divided  by  an 
indivisible  chain  of  iron,  retreat  is  cut  off,  and,  further 
more — furthermore,  we — are — aground." 

It  was  true.  The  Hynd  Horn,  either  from  being  left 
to  her  own  guidance,  or  from  some  last  subtle  impulse 
which  Mr.  England  had  given  to  the  wheel,  ran,  with 
a  scrunch,  upon  a  submerged  bank  of  soft,  clinging 
sand. 

Instantly  all  was  bustle  and  menace,  but  before  the 
latter  had  taken  the  shape  of  an  attempt  to  arrest  the 
person  of  Mr.  England,  that  gentleman  had  found  time 
to  kneel  at  Lady  Pelham's  feet,  kiss  both  her  hands,  say 
in  his  most  tender  voice,  "Farewell,  charmingest,"  to 
mount  lightly  on  the  rail,  leap  gracefully  overboard,  and 
swim  leisurely  ashore.  Not  a  gun  or  pistol  could  be 
fired,  for  none  was  loaded;  not  a  marline-spike  was 
thrown,  for  the  thought  came  to  no  one. 

Mr.  England  stood  dripping  on  the  beach,  in  easy 
view  from  both  vessels.  He  stood  so  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  turning,  disappeared  among  the  trees. 

Instantly  a  port  opened  on  the  pirate  ship,  a  gun 
111 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

was  run  out,  there  was  a  thunderous  discharge,  gener 
ating  thunderous  reverberations,  and  a  ball  screamed 
between  the  masts  of  the  merchantman.  The  water 
fowl  rose  from  the  surface  of  the  harbor  with  a  terrific 
roaring  of  wings,  and  swung  over  the  trees  with  terrified 
cries. 

The  captain  of  the  Hynd  Horn  hauled  down  the 
flag. 

And  Lady  Pelham  sank  sobbing  to  the  deck. 

The  afternoon  passed  without  a  sign  from  the  pirate 
ship  or  the  land.  Long  and  short  strings  of  water-fowl 
returned  to  the  harbor,  and  all  was  as  before.  That 
island  world  stood  still,  waiting  until  Mr.  England 
should  give  it  command  to  move. 

He  might  have  been  seen  pacing  moodily  in  a  glade 
of  the  forest.  For  the  first  time  in  his  adventurous  life 
he  did  not  know  what  he  was  going  to  do  next.  He 
was  possessed  of  a  magnificent  devil  which  was  tempt 
ing  him  to  act  like  a  gentleman. 

About  ten  in  the  morning  a  small  boat  was  rowed 
to  the  Hynd  Horn,  and  Mr.  England  came  over  the 
side.  He  was  white  and  drawn,  and  there  were  blue 
circles  under  his  eyes,  but  he  had  been  at  some  pains 
to  dress  himself  according  to  the  latest  mandates  of 
fashion.  To  the  captain,  who  greeted  him,  he  bowed 
shortly,  and  said: 

112 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"I  have  come  to  speak  with  Lady  Pelham.     Where 

is  she?" 

"If  you  have  come  to  insult  her,  which  I  doubt  not," 
said  the  captain,  stoutly,  "you  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  doing  so  across  a  number  of  dead  bodies.  I  may 
have  hauled  down  my  flag  of  commission,  but  you  shall 
find  my  flag  of  honor  nailed  to  the  mast." 

The  men  of  the  Hynd  Horn  began  to  close  in. 

"For  God's  sake,"  said  Mr.  England,  "don't  make 
me  angry!  Where  is  she  ?" 

"I  demand  your  intentions,"  said  the  captain. 

Mr.  England  pursed  his  lips  and  looked  the  captain  over. 

"My  good  man,"  said  he,  "I  spent  last  night  in  hang 
ing  you  for  safety's  sake  and  sparing  you  for  courtesy's 
sake.  I  did  each  about  nine  hundred  and  eighty  times. 
I  have  barely  reached  a  decision  comfortable  for  all 
concerned,  when  you  begin  to  annoy  me  and  make  me 
wish  to  retract.  Now  I  .want  to  speak  with  Lady 
Pelham.  Where  is  she?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  captain,  "whatever  decision  you  may 
have  reached  as  to  hanging  me  -or  not  hanging  me,  I 
stand  in  the  place  of  a  father  to  that  young  lady,  and  I 
ask  why — 

"Why  in — ,"  said  Mr.  England,  fiercely,  "don't  you 
act  as  if  you  were  grown  up  ? " 

"I'm  condemned  if  you  shall  stand  there  insulting 
me!"  cried  the  captain. 

113 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"I'm  condemned  if  I  sha'n't!"  cried  Mr.  England. 

"I  tell  you — "  began  the  captain,  hotly. 

But  just  here  came  an  interruption  in  the  lovable 
form  of  Lady  Pelham  herself.  The  very  exquisiteness 
of  her  sudden  apparition  upon  the  deck — for  she  was 
all  in  white,  and  her  eyes  were  like  the  morning — cooled 
the  glowing  tempers  of  the  two  men,  as  sweetly  as  rain 
cools  parched  ground. 

"Speak  to  her  if  she  wishes,"  said  the  captain,  with 
a  bow. 

"Captain,"  said  Mr.  England,  with  a  flourish,  "I 
am  under  many  obligations  to  you  already.  I  should 
like  to  place  myself  under  one  more.  I  desire  to  speak 
with  Lady  Pelham  alone." 

The  captain  and  crew  of  the  Hynd  Horn  went  for 
ward  in  a  body.  Mr.  England  removed  his  hat  and 
advanced  slowly  to  Lady  Pelham. 

"What  are  you  to-day?"  said  Lady  Pelham,  not 
coldly,  but  with  deep  sadness. 

"Do  you  mean  am  I  penitent  or  pirate?"  asked  Mr. 
England. 

Lady  Pelham's  head  drooped  in  acquiescence. 

"I  think  that  for'to-day  and  for  many  days,"  said  Mr. 
England,  "I  shall  be  neither  pirate  nor  penitent,  but 
only  a  common  man — with  a  broken  heart." 

"How  well  I  know  you  now!"  said  Lady  Pelham, 
with  even  more  sadness. 

114 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"Lady,"  said  Mr.  England,  "I  did  not  think  you  had 
found  me  out.  But  since  it  is  so " 

"It  was  yesterday,"  said  Lady  Pelham,  "when  your 
eyes  glittered  so,  and  you  looked  me  over  as  if — oh,  the 
shame  of  it!"  A  great  blush  rose  on  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  lady,"  said  Mr.  England,  "I  want  you  to  listen 
to  me  so  much!" 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Pelham;  "and  for  what  reason?" 

"For  these,"  said  Mr.  England — "for  the  sake  of  the 
moon,  and  the  freshness  of  the  sea." 

"I  think  that  you  are  only  going  to  make  me  one  of 
your  speeches,"  said  Lady  Pelham.  "But  I  will  listen 
to  you  for  the  last  time." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Mr.  England — "for  the  last 
time." 

"And  for  afterward,"  said  Lady  Pelham,  almost 
piteously,  "I  have  a  pistol,  which  I  have  been  shown 
how  to  use." 

"You  have  the  right,"  said  Mr.  England,  "to  hurt 
me  more  than  you  are  hurting  me  now — if  that  is  pos 
sible.  But  there  will  be  no  afterward,  for  I  shall  never 
see  your  face  again." 

"What!"  cried  Lady  Pelham. 

"Will  you  listen  to  me,  most  gracious  lady?"  said 
Mr.  England. 

"I  am  listening,"  said  she. 

"I  am  all  that  you  think,"  began  Mr.  England,  "and 
115 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

worse.  I  have  done  nothing  but  lie  to  you.  But  until 
we  sighted  this  island  I  had  no  evil  design.  Then  it 
came  to  me  like  a  flash  that  I  could  have  my  escape  and 
you,  too.  That  was  why  my  eyes  insulted  you.  But, 
lady,  just  before  I  went  ashore,  when  I  stole  those  kisses 
from  your  dear,  innocent  hands,  do  you  know  what 
happened  ?  I  fell  in  love  with  you.  And  I  walked  out 
the  night  in  mortal  combat  with  my  worst  enemy — • 
myself.  And  in  the  morning  the  cur  laid  down  his 
arms  and  my  heart  broke.  And  that  is  why,  gentlest, 
sweetest,  dearest  lady,  I  am  going  to  send  the  Hynd 
Horn  on  her  way  rejoicing,  with  all  that  I  ever  cared  for 
on  board." 

Mr.  England's  voice  was  very  tired,  and  he  stood 
wearily. 

"Are  you  going  to  say  anything  to  me?"  he  said. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  you,"  said  Lady  Pelham,  "that 
I  know  you  have  been  speaking  the  truth,  and  that  you 
are  an  honorable  man." 

"For  your  dear  sake,"  said  Mr.  England,  "I  would 
leave  the  old  life  if  I  could,  but  it  is  too  strong  upon  me. 
I  am  a  little  king  upon  this  island,  and  my  people  are 
mine,  heart  and  hand.  It  is  not  all  murder  and  rob 
bery.  There  are  fair  nights  and  white  moons,  and 
sometimes  you  can  find,  deep  in  the  woods,  places  where 
innocence  lurks,  and  you  can  go  back  to  it  for  a  little. 
Heaven  can  do  no  better  than  that,  lady.  Indeed,  I 

116 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

think  heaven  is  a  place  where  we  recover  our  lost  inno 
cence.  If  there  is  any  good  in  me,  lady,  it  is  the  love  I 
bear  my  kingdom.  And  I  cannot  begin  again,  even  for 
you.  I  was  born  by  chance,  and  chance  used  to  be  my 
only  goddess.  I  know  that  I  must  go  back  to  her,  and 
to  her  sister,  the  spirit  of  desperate  adventure.  At  their 
feet  I  shall  one  day  die,  and  be  damned,  as  I  deserve." 

"I  shall  never  think  of  you  as — as  a  pirate,"  said 
Lady  Pelham. 

"For  your  dear  sake  I  will  try  and  be  less  hate 
ful,"  said  Mr.  England.  "  But  sometimes  we  are  just 
like  anybody  else.  Will  you  try  to  think  of  me  like 
that?  Why,  lady,  there  have  been  true  lovers  on 
this  island." 

"I  shall  think  of  you  often,"  said  Lady  Pelham. 

"To-night,"  said  Mr.  England,  "as  the  Hynd  Horn 
passes  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  will  you  wave  your 
scarf  to  me  ?  I  shall  be  on  the  point." 

"I  will,"  said  Lady  Pelham. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  England.  "It  will  be  sweet 
to  remember  your  having  done  that.  And  now  I  am 
going  to  say  good-by  to  you,  dearest  lady,  but  first  you 
will  let  me  look  at  you  a  little,  for  I  shall  never  see  your 
face  again." 

Lady  Pelham's  eyelids  drooped,  and  her  graceful 
head  drooped. 

Mr.  England  looked  on  her  for  a  long  time. 
117 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

"I  have  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  and  pure," 
he  said. 

A  tear  stole  down  Lady  Pelham's  cheek. 

"Good-by,  dear,"  said  Mr.  England.  He  stooped 
quickly  and  kissed  her  hand  softly  where  it  hung  at 
her  side. 

Lady  Pelham  burst  into  tears. 

All  that  day  she  lay  in  her  berth  and  cried,  and  made 
great  moan,  saying: 

"Oh,  how  terrible — how  terrible — for  I  love  him!" 

There  was  a  wonderful  moon  that  night.  She  came 
brimming  out  of  the  sea,  dripping  with  light,  and  swept 
up  the  heavens,  and  the  fire  of  all  the  stars  in  her  path 
went  out.  Only  the  very  youngest  stars  that  had  strayed 
to  the  most  remote  places  remained  to  look  at  their 
mother;  and  even  they  became  dim. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  leaning  against  the  stem 
of  a  palm,  stood  Mr.  England.  He  was  back  from  the 
beach  in  a  kind  of  recess  among  the  trees.  Every  line 
of  him  expressed  fatigue,  and  his  face  was  very  sad. 

Presently  out  of  the  stillness  came  the  creaking  of 
rigging  and  the  vowel  sounds  of  commands. 

"The  end,"  said  Mr.  England.  He  stood  more 
erect. 

The  Hynd  Horn  slipped  by  like  a  ghost. 

Mr.  England  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  at  first 
118 


CAPTAIN  ENGLAND 

eagerly,  then  surprisedly,  then  dejectedly,  then  bitterly. 
No  scarf  was  waved  to  him  from  the  deck  of  the  outward- 
bound.  She  slid  behind  one  of  the  little  islands,  and 
he  saw  her  no  more. 

"The  end,"  said  Mr.  England.  He  put  his  hands 
over  his  eyes,  and  pressed  tightly.  After  a  little  he  took 
them  down  and  said: 

"She  didn't  mean  to  hurt  me  so." 

Then  he  looked  up  at  the  moon. 

"Now  I  will  go  back  to  my  kingdom,"  he  said. 

But  a  new  sound  broke  the  stillness — the  splash  of 
oars  unhandily  plied.  The  sound  drew  nearer,  but  the 
strokes  occurred  with  less  and  less  frequency,  as  if  the 
boatman  were  tiring.  Mr.  England  stepped  briskly  to 
the  shore. 

A  few  yards  off,  and  to  the  left,  a  boat  was  headed 
for  the  beach.  The  boat  contained  a  lady. 

Mr.  England  sprang  forward. 

"Glorious,  golden,  gracious,  wonderful,  beloved, 
beautiful!"  he  cried.  It  was  as  if  his  voice  caught  fire 
and  blazed  up. 

The  boat  grated  on  the  sand. 

"Will  you  help  me  out,  please?"  said  Lady  Pelham 


119 


IV 
THE   EXECUTION 


THE   EXECUTION 

I 

The  room  was  dark  as  the  pit  and  its  midnight 
silence  was  accentuated  rather  than  disturbed  by  the 
soft,  steady,  grating  sound  of  a  rat  gnawing  in  the 
wall,  and  by  the  loud  metallic  ticking  of  a  clock. 

Suddenly  upon  one  of  the  walls  appeared  a  perpen 
dicular  thread  of  pale  gray.  This  widened  by  grada 
tions  that  were  almost  imperceptible,  and  which  were 
accompanied  by  faint  creaking  noises  like  those  made 
by  iron  hinges  that  have  not  been  oiled.  The  thread 
widened  to  a  rope,  to  a  broad  ribbon,  after  a  while  to 
the  width  of  a  broad  window.  Through  the  rectangles 
of  the  sash  appeared  a  swirling  gray  vista  of  falling 
snow,  half  shrouded  by  the  dark  figure  of  a  man,  his 
cap  and  shoulders  thatched  with  snow.  A  pane  of 
glass  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  sharp  pang.  The  rat  in 
the  wall  ceased  his  gnawing;  and  only  the  clock  con 
tinued  to  break  the  silence.  Presently  the  lower  half 
of  the  sash  began  to  move  upward,  until  there  was  a 
sufficient  opening  for  the  man  to  pass  through.  Before 

123 


THE  EXECUTION 

entering  he  shook  the  snow  from  his  cap  and  shoulders, 
and,  seated  on  the  window-sill,  his  body  in  and  his  legs 
out,  brushed  the  snow  from  his  feet.  Then  he  swung 
his  legs  into  the  room,  one  after  the  other,  and,  turning, 
reached  out  his  arms  and  drew  to  the  shutters.  The 
room  was  again  dark  as  the  pit.  A  faint  sound,  be 
tween  a  crunch  and  a  squeak,  told  that  the  man  had 
closed  the  sash. 

Presently  the  man  struck  a  match.  The  spurt  of 
blue  and  yellow  flame  showed  a  thin,  white,  shaking 
hand  and  a  thin,  white  face — a  young  face  aged  by 
care,  by  premature  cleverness,  by  suffering  and  by  sin. 
It  had  a  hunted  look.  The  match  went  out.  The  man 
lighted  another  and  moved  about  the  room  as  if  looking 
for  something.  He  lighted  match  after  match,  moving 
about  the  room  as  he  did  so,  so  that  its  disposition  and 
its  effects  were  gradually  disclosed:  a  great  fire 
place  with  big  logs  laid  upon  split  shingles  and  news 
papers,  the  dark  hollow  of  an  old,  high-shouldered 
leather  chair,  a  grandfather's  clock,  doors  leading  to 
other  parts  of  the  house,  four  windows,  a  table  covered 
with  an  oil-cloth,  a  big  mirror  in  a  cheap  veneered 
frame. 

From  time  to  time  during  his  stealthy  peregrinations 
the  man  felt  of  his  throat  with  his  left  hand.  The 
gesture  had  the  effect  of  a  something  characteristic  and 
habitual;  it  was  as  if  the  man  had  once  been  afraid 

124 


THE  EXECUTION 

for  his  throat  and  had  got  into  the  habit  of  feeling  to 
see  if  all  was  still  well  with  it.  When  he  came  before 
the  mirror  with  a  lighted  match  in  one  hand,  the  other, 
which  went  again  to  his  throat,  instead  of  being  quickly 
withdrawn,  remained,  and  its  thin  nervous  fingers 
clasped  and  pressed  here  and  there,  as  one  clasps  and 
presses  one's  throat  when  it  is  sore  to  locate  the  exact 
area  of  inflammation.  With  the  last  flicker  of  the 
match  (still  feeling  of  his  throat)  the  man  leered  at  his 
reflected  image,  and  nodded  to  it.  And  his  lips  seemed 
to  form  and  give  out,  without  any  actual  utterance,  the 
words,  "you'll  do." 

His  next  move,  which  was  to  the  deep  leather  chair 
in  which  he  seated  himself,  proved  that,  whatever  his 
ultimate  motive  in  entering  the  house  might  be,  he 
had  no  immediate  intentions  to  the  burglarious  or 
murderous.  Indeed,  his  loud,  steady  breathing  be 
tokened  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  falling  asleep. 
But  at  the  very  moment  when  his  senses  were  passing 
heavily  into  oblivion  the  grandfather's  clock,  after  a 
kind  of  mechanical  throat  clearing,  struck  twice.  The 
man  roused  himself,  drew  off  his  heavy  boots,  lighted  a 
match,  and,  yawning  again  and  again,  walked  quietly 
to  one  of  the  doors  leading  out  of  the  room,  opened  it, 
struck  another  match,  stepped  over  the  threshold,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

The  whole  house  creaked  and  groaned  in  a  sudden 
125 


THE  EXECUTION 

gust  of  wind;  a  dribble  of  soot  and  old  mortar  fell 
rattling  into  the  fireplace.  The  ticking  of  the  clock 
sounded  louder  after  the  extraneous  noises  had  ceased. 
The  rat  began  once  more  to  gnaw  in  the  wall;  guard 
edly  at  first,  but  soon  with  a  rasping  steadiness  that 
made  it  seem  as  if  his  whole  heart  were  in  the  act. 
The  rat  might  have  been  likened  to  a  prisoner  who  was 
trying  to  work  his  way  out  of  jail. 

Presently  the  man  could  be  heard  moving  about  in  the 
room  immediately  above  that  which  he  had  just  quitted. 
But  not  for  long.  The  sound  of  his  steps  soon  ceased. 


II 


Hours  later,  in  the  same  doorway  by  which  the 
young  man  had  left  the  room,  there  appeared,  palely 
illumined  by  the  candle  which  she  carried,  the  emaciated 
figure  of  an  old  woman.  Her  thin,  bony  face,  with  its 
deep  sunken  eyes  and  high-bridged  nose,  suggested  the 
face  of  a  hawk;  the  thin,  harsh  lips  and  the  harsh,  pro 
truding  jaw  gave  her  a  look  of  strong  will  and  inflexi 
bility,  but  the  snow-white  hair,  drawn  tightly  to  a  knot 
at  the  back  of  her  head,  suggested,  it  is  hard  to  say  why, 
a  gentleness  and  motherliness  which  the  hawk  face 
belied.  She  was  shabbily  dressed  in  black;  her  skirt 
did  not  reach  below  her  ankles,  and  disclosed  a  pair  of 
bony  feet  encased  in  coarse  white  stockings  and  broken- 

126 


THE  EXECUTION 

down  slippers.  Her  movements,  though  brisk  and 
sure,  were  those  of  a  person  who  does  not  see  clearly; 
and  she  seemed  to  be  laboring  under  an  almost  irre 
pressible  agitation.  Her  first  action  on  entering  the 
room  was  to  hold  the  candle  very  close  to  the  face  of  the 
clock,  and  to  advance  her  eyes  equally  close  to  it,  so  as 
to  ascertain  beyond  doubt  the  exact  position  of  the 
hands.  The  hands  indicated  that  the  hour  was 
exactly  a  quarter  to  six.  The  old  woman  pressed  her 
hand  nervously  against  her  lean  breast,  and  groaned. 
Then  she  set  the  candle  on  the  table,  and  kneeling  on 
the  cold  board  floor,  her  face  in  her  hands,  began  to 
mumble  and  mutter  as  if  in  prayer,  prayer  in  which 
there  were  a  thousand  things  to  pray  and  only  seconds 
in  which  to  pray  them.  Tears  came  through  her 
fingers  and  trickled  down  her  bony  wrists. 

In  the  doorway  there  now  appeared  a  young  woman, 
also  illumined  by  a  candle  which  she  carried.  Her 
face,  thin  and  white,  had  a  kind  of  gentle  prettiness 
about  it  and  was  crowned  by  glories  of  dark  hair.  The 
young  woman  was  also  dressed  in  black,  but  her  gown, 
though  of  an  old  fashion,  hung  gracefully  and  was  of  a 
decent  fit.  The  young  woman  had  evidently  been  cry 
ing,  but  had  composed  herself.  With  a  pitying  glance 
at  the  old  woman  who  knelt,  and  prayed  and  wept,  she 
crossed  to  the  fireplace  and  thrust  her  candle  among  the 
papers  and  kindlings  laid  to  start  the  big  logs.  Having 

127 


THE  EXECUTION 

assured  herself  that  the  fire  had  caught,  she  set  the  can 
dle  on  the  table,  slipped  her  hands  under  the  old 
woman's  shoulders,  and  raised  her  to  her  feet. 

"Mother I"  she  said,  "I  hoped  you'd  sleep  through 
it." 

"No,  dear — no,  dear,"  said  the  old  woman.  She 
wiped  at  her  eyes  with  the  backs  of  her  hands. 

"  Come  by  the  fire,  mother,  the  cold  is  terrible." 

The  old  woman  suffered  herself  to  be  led  to  the  fire, 
where  she  spread  her  lean  hands  to  the  blaze  that  was 
beginning  to  leap  among  the  logs.  She  had  managed 
to  stop  her  tears  (it  is  easy  for  the  old  both  to  begin 
tears  and  to  stop  them)  and  to  regain  a  certain  com 
posure. 

"Yes,  it  is  terribly  cold,"  she  said.  "I  don't  re 
member  such  another  storm  as  we've  had.  On  the 
north  side  of  the  house  the  snow  is  almost  up  to  the 
second  story  windows." 

Her  eyes  sought  the  face  of  the  clock,  but  at  that 
distance  she  could  not  see  the  hands. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  just  five  minutes  to  six,  mother." 

"  Are  you  sure  the  clock  is  right  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother." 

The  old  woman  began  to  nod  her  head  repeatedly, 
as  old  people  are  prone  to  do  when  their  minds  are  far 
away. 

128 


THE  EXECUTION 

"Sunrise,"  she  said,  "is  just  at  six  o'clock  to-day." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"But  we  shan't  see  the  sun  to-day,  even  if  the  clouds 
pass.  We  must  keep  the  shutters  closed  all  to-day." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"They  always  say  'at  sunrise,'"  said  the  old  woman 
querulously,  "but  they  mean  the  time  when  it  rises,  not 
the  sight  of  it.  In  the  eyes  of  the  law  sunrise  means  a 
certain  time." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"What  time  is  it  now?" 

"It  is  nearly  four  minutes  to  six,  mother." 

"You'll  keep  an  eye  on  the  clock,  won't  you,  dear?" 
said  the  old  woman.  She  rocked  before  the  fire,  her 
hands  still  spread  to  the  warmth.  "  Just  at  sunrise  we 
must  go  on  our  knees  and  pray  to  God." 

"Yes,  mother.  You  are  trembling  with  cold;  let 
me  get  your  shawl  for  you." 

"  I  don't  want  my  shawl,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  I 
would  have  put  it  on  if  I'd  wanted  it." 

The  young  woman  knelt  by  the  fire,  and  readjusted 
the  logs  with  quick,  dexterous  movements.  Combus 
tion  answered  to  the  bettered  draught  and  began  to 
roar  up  the  chimney. 

"Beyond  the  grave,"  said  the  old  woman,  as  if  an 
swering  a  question,  "  there  are  no  clouds."  She  went  on, 
still  as  if  questions  were  being  put  to  her:  "Beyond 

129 


THE  EXECUTION 

the  grave  there  is  mercy;   the  Governor  of  Heaven  will 
have  mercy  on  those  who  have  sinned." 

"Yes,  mother." 

"I  tell  you,"  cried  the  old  woman  in  a  kind  of  pro 
phetic  ecstacy,  "we  shall  all  meet  beyond  the  grave." 

If  further  questions  arose  in  her  soul  she  answered 
them  by  mutterings  that  were  not  words.  The  young 
woman  crossed  to  the  door  by  which  she  had  entered, 
closed  it  and  returned  to  the  fire. 

"  What  time  is  it  now  ? "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  It  is  three  and  a  half  minutes  to  six." 

"He  has  finished  his  breakfast  now,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "and  they  are  leading  him  out." 

"There  came  faintly  from  some  inner  and  upper 
portion  of  the  house  a  sound  as  of  a  floor  creaking. 

"Do  you  hear  anything?"  said  the  old  woman,  a 
kind  of  awful  expectancy  in  her  face.  "I  thought  I 
heard  the  creaking  of  boards.  I  thought  I  heard  the 
scaffold  creaking." 

The  sound  was  repeated. 

"It's  in  the  house,"  said  the  young  woman,  "up 
stairs  somewhere.  Some  one  is  moving  about.  Listen." 

There  came  now  a  distinct  sound  of  slow,  heavy 
steps. 

"  There  is  no  one  in  the  house  but  ourselves  that  can 
move,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"Could  it  be  father?" 

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THE  EXECUTION 

"He  hasn't  moved  for  three  months;  you  know  he 
can't  move;  he's  crippled  with  his  rheumatism,,  He'll 
die  of  it." 

The  young  woman's  eyes  widened  with  terror. 

"It's  coming  down  the  stairs,"  she  said. 

The  old  woman,  erect,  courageous,  full  of  fight, 
stepped  briskly  between  her  daughter  and  the  door. 
It  opened,  and  in  the  frame  appeared  the  bent  figure  of 
a  gigantic  old  man.  He  was  clad  in  a  rough  heavy  over 
coat,  the  collar  turned  up;  below  the  skirt  of  the  coat 
showed  a  foot  of  coarse  white  nightgown.  His  hairy 
shanks  were  bare,  and  his  feet  were  thrust  into  a  pair 
of  enormous  carpet  slippers.  A  Jove-like  head  and 
face,  streaming  with  white  hair  and  beard,  crowned  the 
motley  figure.  But  the  face  had,  instead  of  eyes, 
sockets,  and,  held  to  its  left  ear  by  an  immense,  sinewy, 
hairy  hand,  was  a  long,  old-fashioned  ear-trumpet  of 
japanned  tin. 

"What  is  wrong?"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  like  a  heavy  wagon  crossing  a  wooden  bridge. 

The  old  woman  seized  him  by  the  shoulders  and  began 
to  shake  him. 

"  You  will  kill  yourself ! "  she  said.  "  There  is  nothing 
wrong." 

"Stop  shaking  me,"  said  the  old  man  fiercely. 

The  old  woman's  hands  dropped  from  his  shoulders, 
but  she  continued  to  scold  him. 

131 


THE  EXECUTION 

"You  had  no  business  to  get  up,"  she  said.  "You 
must  go  right  back  to  bed.  Do  you  want  to  kill  your 
self?" 

"Something  is  wrong,"  persisted  the  old  man.  He 
pushed  his  wife  aside  as  if  she  had  been  a  feather,  and 
groped  toward  the  fireplace,  talking  as  he  went. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  have  got  up  and  walked  if 
there  hadn't  been  something  wrong,"  he  said.  "Why 
are  you  all  up  ?  " 

The  old  woman  hovered,  so  to  speak,  on  the  flank  of 
his  advance,  anxious,  frightened,  between  scolding  and 
tears. 

"There  is  nothing  wrong,"  she  said. 

"You  lie,"  said  the  old  man.  "Is  it  about  my 
son?" 

He  turned  his  head  heavily  from  his  wife  to  his 
daughter,  as  if  he  could  see  them  with  his  empty  sockets 
and  read  in  their  faces  the  truth. 

His  daughter  advanced  and  took  him  by  the  arm. 

"Nothing  has  happened,  father."  She  spoke  briskly 
and  cheerfully.  "Come  to  the  fire.  How  good  it  is 
to  see  you  walking  about,  just  as  natural  as  life.  Isn't 
it  good  to  see  him  walking  about,  mother?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  but  without  convic 
tion,  "it  is  wonderful."  She  turned  her  near-sighted 
eyes  to  the  clock  and  tried  to  read  the  time. 

The  old  man  was  conducted  by  his  daughter  to  the 
132 


THE  EXECUTION 

large  leather  chair.     He  sank  into  it  heavily,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  load  of  stones. 

"Your  poor  feet,"  she  said,  "are  blue  with  cold." 

After  an  anxious  look  at  the  clock  she  bent  and 
commenced  to  chafe  them  briskly  between  her 
hands. 

"You  are  both  keeping  something  from  me,"  said 
the  old  man.  "When  mother  got  up  she  thought  I 
was  asleep,  but  I  wasn't.  I  knew  when  she  left  her 
bed.  And  I  knew  then  that  something  was  wrong.  Is 
it  about  my  boy?" 

"No,  father." 

The  old  man  removed  the  trumpet  from  his  ear  and 
laid  it  across  his  knees.  By  that  action  he  cut  himself 
off  from  the  world  of  sounds  and,  blind  and  deaf, 
frowned  terribly  and  worked  his  bushy  eyebrows  up  and 
down.  It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  clock  began  to 
go  through  its  usual  throat  clearing  preamble  to  voicing 
the  hour. 

The  women,  white  as  death  and  trembling  violently, 
sank  to  their  knees  and,  as  if  by  prearrangement,  the 
same  prayer  came  brokenly  from  their  lips: 

"Almighty  and  most  merciful  Father:  We  have 
erred,  and  strayed  from  Thy  ways  like  lost  sheep 

The  old  man's  terrible  rumbling  voice  broke  in  upon 
them,  and  while  he  spoke,  though  they  continued  the 
prayer,  it  was  in  silence. 

133 


THE  EXECUTION 

"As  long  as  we  are  all  up,"  the  old  man  boomed 
and  rumbled,  "why  doesn't  somebody  get  breakfast 
ready?" 

The  clock  had  finished  striking. 

"A  full  stomach  is  the  thing  to  keep  the  cold  out," 
he  said,  and,  seizing  his  ear-trumpet,  thrust  the  small 
end  of  it  into  his  left  ear. 

"  What  are  you  saying  to  mother  ?  "  he  said. 

"Nothing,  father." 

The  old  woman  kept  on  praying. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  me  what  is  wrong  ?  I'm  not  a 
log.  I  could  tear  this  house  down  with  my  hands  if  I 
got  angry.  I'm  not  a  child.  Maybe  you  heard  a  noise 
and  thought  somebody  had  broken  into  the  house. 
Was  that  it  ?  Answer  me." 

He  staggered  heavily  to  his  feet,  and  turned  his 
empty  sockets  this  way  and  that. 

The  two  women  rose  from  their  knees  and  glanced 
at  each  other.  Without  speaking  a  word  the  daughter 
managed  in  that  brief  glance  to  ask  a  question  and  the 
mother  to  answer  it.  The  daughter  turned  to  her 
father.  The  mother  sank  once  more  to  her  knees. 
The  fire  roared  in  the  chimney. 

"Father,"  said  the  young  woman,  speaking  into  the 
mouth  of  the  ear-trumpet,  "it  was  a  noise.  Mother 
heard  it  and  woke  me.  She  thought  she  heard  some 
one  open  a  window  and  then  close  it.  But  she  must 

134 


THE  EXECUTION 

have  dreamed  it,  mustn't  she?    We  .  .  .  we've  been 
all  through  the  house." 

"I  ought  to  have  been  called  at  once,"  said  the  old 
man.  "Just  because  I'm  deaf  and  blind  you  think  I 
can't  look  after  what  belongs  to  me.  Another  time 
.  .  .  are  you  sure  you've  looked  everywhere  ?  " 

"Mother  must  have  been  dreaming." 

"You  thought  you  heard  steps,  mother?"  asked  the 
old  man. 

"Yes,  father."  The  old  woman  rose,  tears  pouring 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  Just  think,"  said  the  old  man,  "  it  might  have  been 
somebody  after  my  money." 

"But  it  wasn't,  father." 

"And  she  thought  she  heard  a  window  being  opened  ?" 

"I  thought  I  heard  it  open  and  then  close,"  said  the 
old  woman.  "But  I  must  have  been  dreaming." 

The  old  man  rose  heavily  and  groped  his  way  to  the 
door,  and  fumbled  till  he  had  the  knob  in  his  hand. 

"I'll  just  go  about  and  make  sure,"  he  said.  He 
passed  out  into  the  darkness  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  The  two  women  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock. 

"Father  has  locked  us  in,"  said  the  young  woman. 

"  He  doesn't  like  to  be  interfered  with.  Let  him  go. 
He'll  soon  find  that  there's  nobody." 

"Mother,"  said  the  young  woman,  "have  we  done 
right  not  to  tell  father?" 

135 


THE  EXECUTION 

"  Done  right  not  to  tell  father  about — about " 

"Yes,  mother — have  we?" 

"Father's  days  are  numbered  in  the  land.  His 
heart's  threatened.  That's  what  the  doctor  said.  Any 
sudden  shock  would  kill  him.  I  think  you'd  best  make 
a  cup  of  hot  coffee  to  give  him  when  he  comes  back." 

"It's  terrible  to  think  of  him  groping  in  those  dark 
rooms." 

"He  couldn't  see  any  better  if  there  were  lights  in 
them.  Besides,  there's  nothing  to  hurt  him." 

"How  quietly  he  moves,  mother;  I  can't  hear  a 
sound." 

"Most  likely  he's  standing  still  trying  to  listen  with 
his  old  trumpet." 

A  curious  change  had  come  over  the  old  woman. 
She  seemed  to  take  a  kind  of  martial  pride  in  the  fact 
that  her  blind,  half  deaf,  half  crippled  old  husband  had 
gone  forth  so  boldly  to  hunt  for  a  thief.  She  stood 
more  erect;  she  had  stopped  trembling. 

"Mother,"  said  the  young  woman  suddenly,  "what 
are  all  these  burnt  matches  doing  on  the  floor  ? " 

"Why,  so  there  are,"  said  the  old  woman.  She 
picked  one  up  and  examined  it.  "  It's  not  our  kind,"  she 
said.  The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  in  bewilder 
ment;  bewilderment  that  changed  gradually  to  horror. 

The  old  woman  ran  noiselessly  to  the  door  by  which 
her  husband  had  gone  out,  and  tried  to  open  it. 

136 


THE  EXECUTION 

"There  is  somebody,"  she  said.  "We  must  get  to 
father." 

The  young  woman  dragged  her  away  from  the  door. 

"If  you  make  a  noise,"  she  said,  "you  will  put  them 
on  their  guard.  Father  must  take  his  chances.  We 
can't  get  to  him  without  making  a  noise.  We  can't 
anyway ;  we  can't  break  that  door  open.  Maybe  they've 
gone." 

The  two  women  leaned  against  the  locked  door 
listening  with  strained  ears. 

Suddenly,  loudly  and  distinctly,  footsteps  sounded  in 
the  room  above  their  heads,  light,  crisp,  firm  foot 
steps. 

"They're  in  my  boy's  room,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"  Mother — mother,"  said  the  young  woman,  her  eyes 
blazing  with  excitement.  "  Don't  you  know  that  step — 
don't  you  know  it  ?  " 

The  old  woman  listened  carefully.  Her  heart  began 
to  rise  and  fall  rapidly.  Her  deep-set  eyes  seemed  al 
most  to  protrude,  so  great  was  her  wonder  and  fear. 

"It  is — it  is"  Her  voice  dropped  and  broke  in  her 
throat. 

"  He  has  got  away,  mother — he  must  have  got  away." 

"I  wonder,"  said  the  old  woman  excitedly,  "if  your 
father  hears  him  and  knows  who  it  is.  Why  did  he 
lock  this  door.  We've  got  to  get  it  open.  Your  old — 
father — so  deaf — blind — might  get  hold  of  him,  and  not 

137 


THE  EXECUTION 

realize  who  it  was,  and,  and — God  in  heaven,  girl — 
quick,  get  that  poker." 

The  young  woman  flashed  to  the  fireplace  and  back, 
bringing  the  long,  solid,  old-fashioned  wrought-iron 
poker. 

"Let  me,  mother."  She  tried  to  find  a  purchase  be 
tween  the  door  and  the  doorstep,  but  could  not  at 
first. 

"Try  higher  up,"  said  the  old  woman.  "Stop — do 
you  hear  anything?" 

They  listened  intently. 

"Not  a  sound,  mother.     We  must  get  it  open." 

They  worked  at  the  door  frantically,  but  without 
success. 

"Stop,"  said  the  old  woman.  "Why  don't  we  warn 
him?"  She  began  to  beat  a  tattoo  with  the  poker 
against  the  ceiling.  "Boy! — boy!"  she  cried  in  a  thin, 
piercing  voice.  "Answer  me — it's  mother." 

There  was  no  answer.  The  silence  was  leaden, 
horrible.  "Boy! — boy!"  screamed  the  old  woman. 

She  listened.  There  was  a  sound  of  heavy  steps 
descending  the  stair. 

"  It's  all  right — father's  coming  back,"  said  the  young 
woman.  "Nothing  can  have  happened." 

"Then  why  didn't  he  answer  me?" 

There  was  a  kind  of  fumbling  sound  upon  the  door, 
then  the  rasp  of  the  key  being  turned.  The  old  man 

138 


THE  EXECUTION 

stepped  heavily  into  the  room.  His  face  had  a  high 
color,  and  he  was  breathing  quickly,  as  an  athlete 
flushes  and  breathes  after  putting  out  his  full  strength. 
He  had  removed  the  key  of  the  door,  and  now,  after 
much  fumbling,  reinserted  it,  gave  it  two  rasping  turns, 
and  dropped  it  into  his  overcoat  pocket.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  women,  rolling  his  sockets  from  one  to  the 
other.  He  put  his  ear-trumpet  to  his  ear. 

"Daughter,"  he  said,  "when  it  gets  to  be  really  day 
light  you  must  go  for  the  sheriff.  In  the  meanwhile 
keep  out  of  the  room  that  is  above  this  one — your 
brother's  room.  The  man  was  coming  out,"  he  went 
on,  "and  he  ran  right  into  me." 

Slowly  and  heavily  the  old  man  extended  his  right 
hand;  the  enormous  thumb  and  fingers  clawed  into  a 
trifle  more  than  a  semi-circumference — the  circumfer 
ence  of  a  medium-sized  man's  neck.  The  thumb  and 
fingers  moved  sharply  inwards,  became  rigid,  knotted, 
and  began  to  tremble  violently. 

"A  hangman,"  said  the  old  man,  "couldn't  have 
done  it  better  with  a  rope." 

The  hand  fell  nerveless,  the  tin  ear-trumpet  clattered 
hollowly  on  the  floor.  The  color  faded  from  the  old 
man's  face;  his  cheeks  and  chin  took  on  a  bluish  tinge 
in  the  candle  light.  A  kind  of  shuddering  spasm 
passed  through  him  from  head  to  foot. 

"Take  me  back  to  the  fire,"  he  said.  "I  am  cold  all 
139 


THE  EXECUTION 

over."  He  had  never  before  spoken  in  such  a  quiet 
dependent  voice. 

The  old  woman,  her  face  working  with  fear  and  hor 
ror,  led  him  to  his  big  chair.  The  young  woman  stood 
as  if  rooted,  her  face  the  color  of  salt;  only  her  fingers 
moved.  They  kept  picking  at  her  skirt. 

The  old  man  fell,  like  a  sack  of  stones,  into  his  chair. 

"I  want  to  hear  what  you're  saying,"  he  said  pres 
ently.  His  voice  whined.  "Give  me  back  my  ear- 
trumpet.  I  dropped  it  by  the  door." 

The  young  woman,  apathetic  and  numb,  moved  to 
where  the  trumpet  had  fallen  and  picked  it  up.  It  fell 
twice  from  her  jerking  fingers. 

The  old  woman,  a  black  and  white  flash,  crossed  the 
room  and  seized  her  daughter's  arm. 

"Don't  give  him  that,"  she  cried.  "Father  mustn't 
know  what  he's  done  ..." 

The  old  man's  voice  once  more,  heavy  and  sonorous, 
broke  over  the  old  woman's  words  like  a  wave  and 
drowned  them. 

"  I  can't  hear  what  you  say,"  he  rumbled.  "  Give  me 
my  ear-trumpet." 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  old  woman  quickly;  "father  must 
never  know  what  he's  done." 

The  young  woman's  mouth  opened  and  shut  several 
times  without  uttering  a  sound.  Her  swallowing  mus 
cles  worked  violently  and  she  kept  licking  her  lower  lip. 

140 


THE  EXECUTION 

Suddenly  her  half-palsied  speaking  machinery  emitted 
a  voice  that  was  between  a  wail  and  a  scream. 

"He  got  out  of  prison" — the  voice  soared  to  its 
highest  register — "and  he  came  home." 

"Quiet,"  said  the  old  woman.  Her  voice  was  sharp 
and  sudden,  like  a  steel  spring  breaking.  "Your  father 
must  not  know  of  this."  She  seized  the  young  woman 
by  the  shoulders  and  shook  her. 

"Can  you  be  calm  now?"  she  said.  "Can  you  col 
lect  yourself  ?  Can  you  speak  in  your  natural  voice  ?  " 
The  young  woman  could  only  gasp  and  mumble. 

"Let  me  do  the  talking,  then,"  said  the  old  woman, 
with  a  sharp  note  of  impatience.  She  snatched  the  ear- 
trumpet  from  her  daughter  and,  flashing  back  to  her 
husband,  thrust  it  into  his  hands.  They  were  lying  open 
on  his  lap.  The  fingers  did  not  close  on  the  trumpet. 
His  head  had  fallen  forward  as  if  in  rumination. 

The  old  woman,  brisk  and  graceful — a  young  girl 
had  not  been  more  so — knelt  and  laid  her  ear  to  the  old 
man's  breast.  Then  she  thrust  her  hand  inside  his 
overcoat  and  laid  it  on  his  heart.  She  felt  rapidly  of 
his  hands,  his  feet,  his  legs.  They  were  cold  as  ice. 

She  rose  heavily,  and  began  to  stroke  the  dead  man's 
streaming  white  hair. 

"  He  knows  all  about  it,  my  dear,"  she  said.  It  was 
difficult  to  tell  if  she  was  addressing  the  dead  man  or  his 
daughter.  "He  can  hear  and  see  now." 

141 


THE  EXECUTION 

The  young  woman  approached  with  halting,  leaden 
steps. 

"We  must  get  him  to  his  bed,  somehow,"  said  the  o'  1 
woman,  "even  if  it  breaks  our  backs.  Nobody  must 
know  that  he  ever  left  it.  Nobody  must  ever  know 
what  father  has  done." 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  emotion  now  in  the  old 
woman's  voice.  It  was  the  voice  of  a  calm  and  zealous 
housekeeper,  giving  orders  during  a  spring  house- 
cleaning. 

"We  must  hide  all  the  traces  of  what  has  hap 
pened,"  she  said.  "It  wouldn't  do  to  have  people 
know  what  father  has  done.  The  snow  will  have  cov 
ered  all  the  tracks  leading  to  the  house.  People  must 
never  know — 

"Mother — mother,  if  you  talk  so  heartlessly  I  shall 
go  mad." 

"Help  me  now,  we  must  get  your  father  back  to  his 
bed,  and  then — 

The  two  women,  the  one  calm,  self-reliant  and  un 
moved,  the  other  hysterical,  gasping  and  useless,  were 
unable  to  stir  the  gigantic  body  of  the  old  man. 

The  old  woman  stood  for  a  long  time  in  thought. 
Then  she  took  the  door-key  from  the  dead  man's  over 
coat  pocket  and  thrust  it  into  her  daughter's  hand. 

"Get  our  bonnets  and  shawls,"  she  said,  "and  the 
money." 

142 


THE  EXECUTION 

"  What— for— mother  ?  " 

"Do  as  I  tell  you." 

The  old  woman  occupied  the  moments  of  her  daugh 
ter's  absence  by  dragging  the  fire  piecemeal  from  the 
fireplace  and  reconstructing  it  against  the  ancient 
tinder-dry  wainscoting  of  the  room. 

The  young  woman  returned  to  a  room  full  of  smoke, 
in  which  the  candles  made  dim  yellow  halos. 

"Mother — mother,  what  have  you  done?"  she  cried. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  old  woman,  "we  couldn't  have 
gone  on  living  in  this  house.  By  the  time  we  can  fetch 
help  there  will  be  nothing  left  of  it  but  ashes.  Come." 


143 


SIMON   L'OUVRIER 


SIMON   L'OUVRIER 


The  other  day  Simon  L'Ouvrier  died.  A  good  half 
of  the  New  York  dailies,  supposed  to  be  devoted  to  the 
promulgation  of  news,  made  no  mention  of  the  fact. 
A  number  misspelt  his  name,  and  at  least  one  had  it 
that  he  was  a  painter.  Thus  a  remarkable  man  and  a 
remarkable  talent  made  their  exit  from  this  busy  stage, 
receiving,  from  the  jaded  audience,  adieus  the  most 
hasty  and  undignified;  scant  thanks  for  past  entertain 
ment,  and,  presently,  oblivion. 

These  days  a  great  man  makes  as  much  stir  as  a  stone 
thrown  into  a  pond — a  splash,  ripples,  nothing.  The 
bigger  the  man,  the  bigger  the  splash.  Yet  for  all  the 
smooth  and  placid  air  of  forgetfulness  assumed  with 
unseemly  haste  by  the  stirred  water,  the  pond  is  forever 
affected  by  the  sinking  of  the  stone.  Its  general  level 
is  raised.  And  if  the  stone  was  big  enough,  it  shows 
eternally  above  the  surface  like  an  island.  Such  a  stone 
flung  into  Europe  was  Napoleon.  Such  were  Shake 
speare,  Cromwell,  and  the  other  prodigies  that  man  is 

147 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

willing  enough  to  forget,  but  unable.  A  man  could  as 
easily  forget  his  own  sins  as  Shakespeare. 

Simon  L'Ouvrier  was  a  small  stone,  but  perfectly 
round,  and  in  his  time  was  flung  into  the  pond  with 
such  violence  as  to  make  a  very  great  splash.  And 
then,  forgotten,  sunk  to  the  bottom,  covered  with  mud, 
he  was  fished  up  and  flung  in  again.  It  is  given  to  few 
men  to  make  more  than  one  splash.  Twice  L'Ouvrier 
set  the  pond  agog,  twice  sank  to  the  bottom,  and 
was  twice  forgotten.  And  the  other  day,  by  the 
grace  of  God,  came  death  to  put  him  out  of  his 
misery. 

Simon  L'Ouvrier  was  born  in  Tours,  in  sight  of  the 
statue  of  De  Balzac.  His  father  was  a  cake-maker  of 
much  talent  and  address — a  man  who  put  as  much 
genius  into  a  new  frosting  as  Bernard  Palissy  gave  to 
his  enamels.  To  the  child  it  matters  little  if  the  trans 
mitted  influences  toward  thoroughness  and  application 
come  from  a  cake-maker  or  a  maker  of  ballads,  if  only 
they  come.  L'Ouvrier  himself  believed  firmly  in  hered 
ity  and  often  spoke  in  proof  of  it.  "This  is  how  I  came 
to  have  a  talent,"  was  the  beginning  of  his  favorite 
anecdote,  which  went  on:  "My  father,  the  day  ended, 
left  some  cakes  to  bake  in  a  slow  oven.  His  heart  was 
set  on  them,  for  the  ingredients  were  mixed  in  entirely 
new  and  promising  proportions.  His  heart  was  equally 
set  on  the  return  of  my  mother,  who  had  been  spending 

148 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

the  week  at  Blois  with  her  parents.  My  mother  re 
turned,  and  after  the  usual  embraces  proper  to  such 
an  occasion,  and  the  rapid,  mutual  accounts  of  the  days 
passed  in  separation,  the  worthy  couple  ascended  to 
their  chamber  and  prepared  for  bed.  It  was  November 
and  bitterly  cold,  the  kind  of  night  when  leaving  one's 
bed  is  worse  than  going  into  battle.  'Now  I  call  this 
comfort/ said  my  mother;  'kiss  me  good-night.'  My 
father  kissed  her,  but  she  felt  that  his  heart  was  not 
wholly  in  the  tenderness.  *  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? ' 
said  she,  slightly  piqued.  'I  was  thinking,  my  dear/ 
said  my  father, '  that  it  would  have  been  better  to  have 
put  the  pistache  cakes  on  the  warmer  side  of  the  oven; 
the  apricot  paste  will  bake  with  less  heat/  'Never 
mind  that/  said  my  mother,  'do  not  invite  a  cold  by 
descending  to  the  kitchen/  'Very  well/  said  my 
father, ' I  can  try  again  to-morrow.  Ah!  but  it  is  good 
to  have  you  back.'  'Don't  talk  to  me  in  that  tone/ 
said  my  mother,  'you  are  still  thinking  of  the  cakes.' 
'That  is  true/  said  my  father,  'and  I  would  like  to  take 
just  one  little  look  to  see  how  things  are  going.'  'In 
the  name  of  God/  said  my  mother,  'go.  But  you  are 
inviting  an  inflammation  of  the  chest.'  So  my  father 
got  out  of  bed,  put  on  his  slippers,  and  pattered  down 
to  his  famous  cakes.  When  he  returned  he  said:  'I 
have  shifted  the  cakes  and  raised  the  heat  one  degree, 
and  now,  my  treasure,  I  have  thoughts  of  you  only/ 

149 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

'You  are  shivering/  said  my  mother.  'That  is  for  you 
to  think  about/  said  my  father." 

"It  is  to  these  circumstances,"  L'Ouvrier  would  con 
clude,  "that  I  owe  the  qualities  which  have  brought 
me  a  measure  of  success:  passion  and  the  capacity  for 
taking  pains.  But  for  a  thorn  to  modify  my  pleasure 
in  these  roses,  I  am  diabolically  subject  to  colds." 

On  one  occasion,  having  concluded  this  anecdote,  a 
friend  asked  him  this  question:  "And  what  do  you  owe 
your  mother?" 

"Everything,"  said  L'Ouvrier;   "she  was  a  Jew." 


II 


At  an  age  when  most  boys  are  flying  kites  or  dream 
ing  of  the  approaching  holidays  Simon  L'Ouvrier 
was  plotting  the  steps  by  which  he  should  ascend  to 
eminence. 

He  was  slight,  dark,  large-featured,  big-eared,  bright- 
eyed,  and  singularly  phlegmatic.  He  worked  long 
shifts  in  the  bakery,  lending  an  amazing  address  to  the 
work,  and  thought  long  thoughts.  This  is  curious: 
that  in  those  days  he  had  never  been  inside  of  a  theatre, 
but  had  already  determined  to  be  an  actor.  We  have 
his  own  word  for  it.  To  quote  from  his  journal,  a 
bulky  volume,  long  out  of  print:  "I  have  but  one 
dream — to  be  an  actor.  To  this  end  I  am  determined 

150 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

to  devote  whatever  is  in  me  of  inclination,  capacity  for 
suffering  and  power.  I  will  not  allow  myself  to  fail." 
Any  other  boy  of  fifteen,  possessed  by  such  a  dream, 
would  have  let  it  out  in  some  manner  to  the  family 
circle.  But  Simon  had  the  great  gift  of  reticence,  the 
greater  gift  of  consideration.  "Why  talk,"  said  the 
journal,  "when  I  have  as  yet  formulated  no  plan  of 
procedure  ?  Why  trouble  my  father,  who  wishes  me  to 
devote  my  life  to  frosting  and  pistache  ?  Why  trouble 
my  mother,  whose  dream  it  is  that  I  should  one  day 
marry  a  lady?  .  .  .  By  working  diligently  at  a  trade 
which  does  not  interest  me  I  am  gaining  character.  .  .  . 
I  have  bought  a  mirror  to  make  faces  in.  It  is  five 
inches  in  diameter,  weighs  but  little,  and  goes  easily  in 
the  pocket." 

There  is  nothing,  to  my  mind,  more  characteristic  of 
L'Ouvrier  than  that  mirror.  Can  you  not  picture  him, 
in  his  blue  blouse  and  baker's  cap,  waiting  till  the  ovens 
can  take  care  of  themselves  (he  never  neglected  his 
work — if  we  can  trust  the  journal;  and  I  think  we  can), 
whipping  out  the  mirror  and  making  faces  in  it  ? 

"The  time,"  he  wrote,  "is  inevitable  when  I  shall  be 
caught  with  my  mirror  and  pronounced  an  imbecile." 
Later  he  wrote:  "I  have  learned  to  prick  up  my  ears 
like  a  dog,  to  move  my  scalp  up  and  down,  to  frown 
horribly,  and  to  stare  my  own  self  outof  countenance." 
Again  he  wrote:  "My  practice  is  to  imagine  myself  in 

151 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

a  situation:  to  brood  over  it  until,  according  to  its 
nature,  I  am  either  (and  in  real  fact)  happy,  unhappy, 
terrified,  jocose,  pathetic,  heroic.  Arrived  at  such  a 
state  of  mind,  I  glance  in  my  mirror,  and  try  to  catch, 
and  store  away  for  future  use,  the  expression  written 
there  for  the  moment  in  lights  and  shadows.  By  a 
diligent  pursuit  of  this  method  it  must  arrive  that  in 
the  end  I  shall  be  able  to  look  jocose  without  feeling 
so;  heroic,  though  afraid.  ...  I  have  discovered 
something:  the  emotions  of  a  quiet  nature — tender 
ness,  gentleness,  archness  (if  that  be  an  emotion), 
courtesy,  whimsicalness,  are  expressed  by  the  soul; 
that  is  to  say,  a  man,  more  easily  a  woman,  can  look 
these  things  without  moving  a  muscle.  The  passions — 
jealousy,  hate,  fear,  indeed  all  except  greed — are  ex 
pressed  by  the  muscles.  Greed  may  be  expressed  by 
either  method.  ...  I  make  an  analysis  of  a  given 
character;  then  try  to  put  myself  in  the  mental  atti 
tude  of  that  character,  and  then  study  the  reflection  of 
it  in  my  mirror.  Thus  I  have  arrived  at  the  ability  to 
look  like  any  one  in  the  establishment — my  father,  my 
mother,  the  apprentices,  the  maids,  etc.  This  morning 
I  tried  to  look  like  the  archbishop.  I  thought  for  a 
long  time  of  good  deeds,  quiet  cloisters,  the  crucified 
Jesus,  and  charity.  Then  I  looked  into  the  mirror, 
and  saw  there  a  face  not  in  the  least  like  the  arch 
bishop's.  I  then  imagined  myself  an  archbishop;  I 

152 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

developed  the  ambition  to  become  a  cardinal,  then 
Pope.  I  plotted  ways  and  means,  I  played  at  politics — 
I  looked  in  the  mirror,  and,  in  the  name  of  a  thousand 
saints,  I  was  the  archbishop's  self!  ...  I  have  tried 
another  experiment.  I  became,  with  all  the  intensity 
possible,  myself — my  whole  self — self-centred,  ambi 
tious,  single-minded,  sure  of  success,  full  of  courage  to 
endure  the  means  to  my  self-announced  end.  I  looked 
in  the  mirror,  and  saw  the  face  of  a  conqueror.  ...  I 
looked  at  myself  so  long  that,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  I  allowed  the  cakes  with  which  I  had  been  entrusted 
to  burn." 

Ill 

Simon  did  not  swerve  from  any  of  his  purposes. 
He  kept  his  own  counsel.  His  parents  died  in  peace 
and  left  him  the  bakery,  ten  thousand  francs  which 
they  had  saved,  and  five  locked  volumes  of  culinary 
secrets.  Simon  sold  the  bakery  and  his  good-will  for 
the  sum  of  forty  thousand  francs,  tucked  the  culinary 
secrets  in  a  corner  of  his  trunk,  the  mirror  in  his  pocket, 
nodded  in  a  friendly  manner  to  the  statue  of  De  Balzac, 
and  took  the  train  for  Paris. 

Up  to  this  time — he  was  now  seventeen — he  had  never 
been  inside  of  a  theatre  nor  read  a  play.  Neither 
played  a  part  in  his  scheme  of  education.  Still,  the 
theatres  and  the  book-stalls  of  the  capital  tempted 

153 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

him,  but  not  beyond  his  strength.  "In  ten  years," 
says  the  journal,  "I  promise  myself  a  performance  each 
night  and  a  whole  library  of  plays.  Meanwhile,  I  must 
devote  myself  to  life,  to  joy  and  to  sorrow,  to  nature 
and  the  development  of  all  that  is  best  in  me,  to  the 
knowledge,  if  not  the  exercise,  of  all  that  is  worst." 
The  journal  tells  us  further  that  Simon  quitted  Paris 
for  Marseilles,  and  played  all  the  way,  much  to  the 
alarm  and  annoyance  of  other  travellers  occupying  the 
same  compartment  with  him,  the  part  of  a  young  fel 
low  who  has  contracted  consumption,  been  taken  out 
of  college  by  his  doting  parents,  and  sent  South.  "I 
tell  one  old  fellow,  much  to  his  horror,  that  I  have  had 
three  hemorrhages  and  am  likely  at  any  moment  to 
have  another — alors  vous  verrez  du  sang — va!"  He 
went  to  Algiers,  to  a  hotel  frequented  by  consumptives, 
and  continued  for  many  months  to  play  his  part,  ac 
quiring,  he  tells  us,  from  observation  and  practice,  a 
sufficient  perfection  to  deceive  a  doctor. 

"There  is  one  woman  here  who  will  not  recover.  I 
am  watching  her  closely,  and  causing  my  own  malady 
to  progress  symptom  by  symptom  with  hers.  But  one 
of  these  days  she  will  die,  and  I  will  take  a  turn  for  the 
better.  In  the  cough  I  am  past  perfect.  I  eat  little 
for  two  reasons :  to  appear  pale  and  to  husband  my  re 
sources.  Sometimes  I  cut  my  arm  so  that  I  may  show 
blood  on  my  handkerchief.  ...  A  young  girl  came  by 

154 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

to-day's  boat.  She  is  very  beautiful,  but  far  gone  with  the 
malady.  A  part  suggests  itself:  A  man  dying  of  consump 
tion  is  in  love  with  a  woman  dying  of  consumption." 

The  journal  does  not  tell  the  girl's  whole  name;  only 
the  Christian  part  of  it — Cloise.  Simon  made  love  to 
her,  so  he  tells  us.  They  were  the  talk  of  the  hotel. 
"The  situation  is  pathetic  in  the  extreme,"  he  writes. 
"  Without  meaning  to,  I  have  made  her  love  me.  I  will 
never  let  her  know  that  I  am  deceiving  her.  .  .  .  To 
day  she  said:  'Simon,  dear,  if  you  would  only  take  a 
turn  for  the  better,  I  think  I  would.'  This  is  very 
curious.  I  wonder  if  there  is  any  truth  in  it.  To 
morrow  I  will  cough  less.  ...  It  is  very  wonderful; 
as  I  improve,  she  improves.  She  is  happy — oh,  so 
happy.  Suppose  she  should  recover  ?  I  do  not  wish  to 
marry  her,  for  I  do  not  love  her  in  the  least;  but  would 
it  be  honorable  to  do  otherwise  ?  .  .  .  This  morning  I 
pretended  to  be  worse.  But  I  must  not  do  so  again. 
She  had  a  hemorrhage,  poor  child.  ...  If  I  can  save 
her  by  recovering,  I  will  recover;  if  I  must  marry  her, 
I  must.  .  .  .  This  morning  I  appeared  at  breakfast 
with  a  beaming  face.  'Cloise,'  I  said,  'I  only  coughed 
once  during  the  night.'  Ah,  such  joy — such  joy!  I 
imitate  her  joy  faithfully.  We  are  like  two  happy 
birds.  .  .  .  Cloise  continues  to  improve.  I  shall  have 
to  marry  her.  This  is  not  at  all  in  my  scheme  of  life. 
...  It  is  six  weeks  since  Cloise  had  her  hemorrhage. 

155 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

I  have  asked  her  hand  in  marriage  from  her  parents. 
...  It  is  very  cold  to-day;  we  shall  not  go  out  .  .  . 
a  note  from  Cloise  to  say  that  she  can  not  leave  her 
bed,  she  has  taken  cold;  will  I  pass  her  door  sometimes 
during  the  day?  It  will  comfort  her,  she  says.  .  .  . 
Have  just  come  from  passing  her  door.  She  is  cough 
ing  again.  Poor  child!  I  love  her  a  little;  that  much 
is  certain.  .  .  .  To-day  it  is  still  very  cold;  no  note 
from  Cloise.  I  must  make  inquiries  of  her  parents. 
I  reach  their  door.  Within  is  a  low  moaning.  .  .  .  For 
a  moment,  I  confess  it  with  shame,  I  am  tempted  to 
rush  in  and  play  the  heartbroken  lover;  but  only  for  a 
moment.  I,  even,  have  better  feelings.  I  will  say 
nothing.  I  will  go  away.  Maybe  she  died  happier  for 
thinking  that  she  was  loved.  ...  I  can  not  make  up 
my  mind  what  to  play  next.  I  am  sick  of  disease.  I 
think  I  will  be  a  man  of  iron — one  of  these  boisterous 
fellows  that  has  no  ailments,  no  fatigues,  nothing  but  a 
vast  energy,  a  vast  appetite,  a  loud  mouth.  I  shall  be 
disagreeable  enough,  I  dare  say,  but  pouf!  Suppose 
that  beneath  a  gruff  exterior  I  ill  conceal  a  heart  of 
gold?" 

IV 

That,  then,  was  the  way  Simon  L'Ouvrier  went  about 
learning  his  art.  He  lived  out  hundreds  of  parts; 
sparing  no  pains  to  be  perfect  in  the  whole  and  its 

156 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

components.  In  the  privacy  of  his  own  room,  in  com 
plete  solitude,  sometimes  for  whole  days  of  solitude,  he 
never  swerved,  he  tells  us,  from  the  character  he  had 
assumed  for  the  time  being.  Now  he  would  be  a 
military  man,  disappointed  in  his  aspirations;  now  a 
successful  man  of  affairs;  now  an  explorer;  now  a 
priest,  author,  photographer,  lawyer.  To  the  playing 
of  each  character  he  gave  an  infinity  of  thought,  re 
search,  and  temperament.  It  is  said  that  there  are  few 
professions  in  which  he  could  not  have  practised  with 
aptitude,  and  perhaps  distinction.  The  journal  tells  us 
of  many  failures — parts  which  at  first  he  was  unable  to 
play.  To  these  he  returned  again  and  again  until,  for 
so  he  would  have  us  believe,  he  succeeded  even  in  de 
ceiving  himself.  At  one  period,  toward  the  end  of  his 
self-appointed  term  of  practice,  it  became  his  ambition 
to  visit  Lhasa,  the  forbidden  city,  in  the  guise  of  a  pil 
grim.  He  gave  two  whole  years  of  the  most  search 
ing  preparation  for  this  feat,  living  close  to  the  danger 
line,  studying  inflections  and  Buddhism;  accustoming 
his  body  to  bear  the  desert  sun.  "I  am  now,"  he 
writes,  "so  seasoned  that  I  can  lie  naked  in  the  sun  a 
whole  day  and  be  none  the  worse.  It  will  not  be  long 
before  I  am  the  right  color  from  head  to  foot.  I  pass 
readily  for  a  native,  and  shall  burn  my  bridges  and 
join  the  next  pilgrimage." 

It  seems  that  on  this  journey  he  penetrated  to  within 
157 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

five  miles  of  the  forbidden  city  successfully,  and  was 
then  exposed  by  a  holy  man  who  had  come  out  to  inspect 
the  pilgrimage.  "It  was  terrible,"  he  wrote  afterward; 
"there  was  something  in  his  eye  which  I  could  not  meet. 
He  questioned  me;  I  lost  my  presence  of  mind,  and 
stammered.  I  suffered,  I  think,  from  what  is  called 
stage-fright.  I  was  an  impostor,  patently,  self-con 
fessed.  They  stripped  my  clothes  from  me,"  the  nar 
rative  continues,  "and  suspended  me  to  the  wall  of  a 
house  by  means  of  two  nails  driven  through  the  palms 
of  my  hands.  ...  I  remained  there  hanging  a  day  and 
a  night  in  mortal  agony.  ...  I  said:  'Simon,  you 
have  elected  to  be  a  player  of  parts.  Act  now  the 
stoic.'  But  as  God  is  forgiving  I  could  not.  To 
strangle  my  screams  ere  they  were  fairly  born  was  the 
utmost  that  I  could  do.  Nor,  indeed,  is  any  philosophy 
potent  in  the  presence  of  such  pain  as  I  endured  at  that 
time." 

He  was  taken  down  after  hanging  for  twenty-four 
hours,  and  escorted  out  of  the  country  by  men  who 
struck  him  terribly  with  whips.  He  writes:  "When 
the  illness  following  this  barbaric  usage  had  passed,  I 
found  myself  still  firm  in  the  intention  to  visit  the  for 
bidden  city.  It  may  be  that  it  will  be  my  last  part. 
Let  me  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  be  perfect  in  it." 

The  second  attempt  succeeded.  He  penetrated  the 
forbidden  city  and  came  out  alive;  unharmed  and  un- 

158 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

detected.  The  two  attempts,  with  the  preparation  for 
them,  cost  him  five  years.  He  had  devoted  already, 
from  the  time  of  purchasing  the  mirror,  twenty  years 
to  the  study  of  his  art. 

"I  am  thirty-seven,"  he  writes.  "What  does  that 
matter?  I  can  look  eighteen.  I  have  done  my  best. 
I  shall  now  take  the  world  by  storm." 

I  cannot,  in  justice  to  my  subject,  refrain  from 
quoting  another  passage  from  the  journal,  written  on 
the  journey  from  the  Far  East  to  Paris :  "  In  every  part 
that  I  have  undertaken  to  play  I  have  touched  perfec 
tion,  except  in  one.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  be  a 
gentleman.  Nor  can  any  self-love  convince  me  that  I 
shall  ever  succeed  with  that  illusive  and  exquisite  role. 
The  many  will  not  know,  but  the  few,  those  who  are 
born,  will  never  be  satisfied  with  my  interpretation.  I 
have  drunk  this  bitter  cup  to  the  dregs,  and  no  longer 
care." 


It  would  be  interesting  to  know  if  at  this  period, 
slightly  anterior  to  his  intended  debut,  Simon  L'Ouvrier 
had  any  doubts  as  to  how  the  public  would  receive  him. 
The  journal  voices  none;  L'Ouvrier  never  admitted  to 
having  had  any.  Acquaintances  (friends  the  man  never 
had)  affirm  that  doubting  had  no  rooting-place  in  his 
character.  De  Maupassant  is  said  to  have  said: 

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SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

"L'Ouvrier?  He  would  play  God  if  they  would  let 
him.  Except  for  purposes  of  mimicry,  he  does  not 
know  what  modesty  is,  or  conceit  for  that  matter. 
Give  him  so  much  as  a  cotton  thread  and  he  will  hang 
himself  beautifully;  give  him  a  dish  of  crumpled  paper 
and  you  will  behold  a  connoisseur  eating  ortolan.  Give 
him  nothing  and  he  will  be  everything." 

Madame  Bernhardt  was  present  at  L'Ouvrier's  third 
or  fourth  performance  (as,  indeed,  was  all  Paris).  Dur 
ing  the  first  entr'acte  she  said:  "It  is  horrible  to  feel 
clumsy  all  at  once."  During  the  second  entr'acte  she 
said,  with  tears  in  her  golden  voice:  "I  am  willing  to 
admit  that  I  am  not  an  actor,  but  a  buffoon;  neverthe 
less  this  public  demonstration  of  the  fact  is  hard  to 
bear."  The  curtain  rose  on  the  third  act;  L'Ouvrier 
appeared;  Madame  Bernhardt  burst  out  laughing;  so 
did  the  whole  house.  Ten  minutes  later  the  divine 
Sarah  was  in  tears.  The  curtain  fell.  The  house  was 
sobbing.  Coquelin  Aine'  left  his  seat  and  approached 
Madame  Bernhardt.  Tears  were  streaming  from  his 
comical  eyes.  "I  am  going,"  said  he;  "farewell." 
"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked.  "To  Pere  La 
Chaise,"  said  he,  "to  bury  myself."  "I  will  go  with 
you,"  said  she.  "But  in  the  name  of  God  let  us  wait 
till  the  performance  is  over.  If  I  know  anything  of 
stage-craft  there  will  be  another  occasion  to  make  us 
laugh.  I  would  not  miss  it  for  assured  salvation." 

160 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

"Admit,"  said  Coquelin,  "that  I  am  a  lumpish  ama 
teur."  "Never!  But  admit,  you,  that  my  voice  is  full 
of  cracks!"  "Never,"  said  Coquelin,  and  he  hastened 
back  to  his  seat,  for  the  signal  had  been  given  for  the 
curtain  to  go  up.  During  the  act  Coquelin  was  heard 
to  say:  "Those  feet — oh,  those  feet,  how  eloquent!" 
And  when  the  performance  was  over  he  sought  out 
Madame  Bernhardt,  and  said:  "I  thank  God  that  at 
least  this  man  is  a  Frenchman."  "And  I,"  said 
Madame,  "thank  God  that  he  is  a  Jew." 

But  all  this  is  advancing  matters  too  much.  How 
did  L'Ouvrier  get  his  chance  to  play  before  Paris  ?  In 
a  manner  thoroughly  characteristic.  Says  the  journal: 
"Having  ascertained  that  Monsieur  Didot  was  alone 
in  his  office,  and,  indeed,  in  the  whole  theatre,  except 
for  a  boy  to  answer  the  bells,  I  took  the  latter,  an  in 
telligent  gamin,  into  my  confidence.  '  I  am  an  actor,'  I 
said,  'and  I  have  a  grudge  against  Monsieur  Didot.  I 
am  going  to  frighten  him,  but  I  shall  not  hurt  him. 
If  he  calls  for  help,  do  not  hear.  I  am  only  going  to 
play  a  trick  on  him.'  Then  I  gave  the  gamin  a  couple 
of  francs  and  ascended  to  Monsieur  Didot's  office.  I 
assumed  the  face  of  a  madman,  entered  without  knock 
ing,  locked  the  door  behind  me,  and  put  the  key  in  my 
pocket.  'They  say  I  am  mad,'  I  said;  'what  do  you 
think?'  Monsieur  Didot  is  a  large,  courageous  man, 
who  has  fought  a  number  of  duels.  He  rose  and  placed 

161 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

himself  so  that  his  large  desk  was  between  us.  'I  am 
not  really  mad/  I  said,  'but  sometimes  I  feel  in  my 
muscles  a  superhuman  force,  and  I  have  to  exercise  it. 
That/  I  said,  in  a  confidential  tone,  'is  how  I  escaped. 
There  were  bars  in  the  window.  I  took  them  in  my 
hands;  they  came  to  pieces.  It  is  good  to  be  strong. 
Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  could  tear  a  man's  head  from 
his  body  with  my  hands/  Here  I  advanced  a  few 
steps,  looking  more  and  more  insane.  'I  must  try  it 
some  time/  I  said.  Monsieur  Didot  was  trembling 
violently,  like  a  man  in  a  malarial  chill.  'But  I'm  not 
mad/  I  said,  'and  the  proof  is  that  at  times  I  imagine 
myself  to  be  a  dog.'  Here  I  began  to  yelp,  bark,  and 
snarl.  Monsieur  Didot's  hand  closed  on  a  heavy  ruler. 
'See/  I  said,  and  I  held  up  my  hands  so  that  he  could 
see  the  scars  in  the  palms,  'I  have  been  crucified.  Do 
you  wonder  that  I  am  a  little  queer  at  times  ?  And  the 
queerest  thing  is  this,  that  I  have  never  been  in  a 
theatre  and  yet  at  times  I  imagine  myself  to  be  an 
actor.  Nothing  soothes  me  like  reciting.  See,  at  the 
thought  of  it,  the  mad  look  leaves  my  eyes.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  me  recite  ?'  He  nodded.  He  was  too 
frightened  to  speak.  I  let  the  madness  go  out  of  my 
face,  and  in  a  heart-broken  voice  counted  from  one  to 
twenty  in  Arabic.  When  I  had  finished  tears  were 
rolling  down  the  manager's  face.  'That  was  how  I  lost 
her/  I  said.  Then  I  began  again  at  one  and  counted 

162 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

to  twenty  in  a  comic  manner.  And  though  he  was 
shaking  in  his  shoes,  laughter  burst  from  Monsieur 
Didot's  mouth  before  I  had  finished  saying  the  number 
five.  'See,'  I  said,  'how  rational  I  can  be  if  I  am 
humored.'  Then,  suddenly  kneeling,  I  began  to  make- 
love  to  a  chair  with  the  most  soul-moving  passion. 
Again  Monsieur  Didot  wept.  Then  I  scolded  the  chair, 
pretending  that  it  was  my  little  boy  and  that  he  had 
fallen  down  in  the  mud  in  his  Sunday  clothes.  Then  I 
made  it  my  confessor,  and  confessed  to  the  most  idiotic 
crimes  and  sins.  Monsieur  Didot  roared  with  laugh 
ter.  Then  I  became,  in  a  moment,  perfectly  rational. 
'Confess,'  I  said,  'that  you  have  been  entertained.  I 
am  not  in  the  least  mad.  I  want  you  to  stage  me  in  a 
play  which  I  shall  select.  That  is  all.  Perhaps  you 
have  not  seen  enough  of  my  art  to  judge.  Give  me 
five  minutes,  and  I  will  die  of  consumption,  waste  away 
before  your  eyes,  and  spit  blood.  It  is  not  pretty,  but 
I  can  do  it,  though  it  is  disagreeable  to  bite  the  inside 
of  one's  mouth.  Or,  if  you  prefer,  I  will  have  an 
epileptic  fit,  or  strangle  myself.  Or,  if'  you  like,  I  will 
go  mad  again  and  frighten  you  to  death.' 

"Monsieur  Didot  vented  a  long  sigh.  'Whatever  you 
do,'  he  said,  'don't  go  mad.  It  was  horrible.  But  I 
will  stage  you  in  whatever  play  you  select.  You  are 
wonderful.  But  what  was  that  first  piece  you  recited  ? 
I  could  not  understand  a  word  of  it,  yet  it  made  me 

163 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

cry.'  '  That,'  I  said, '  was  the  Arabic  for  the  cardinal  num 
bers  one  to  twenty  inclusive.  And  so  was  the  second 
piece,  which,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  made  you  laugh.'" 

That  was  how  L'Ouvrier  induced  a  manager  to  give 
him  a  start.  The  rest,  the  first  night — (Edipus — be 
longs  to  dramatic  history.  On  the  one  side  the  audience 
and  critics,  experienced  playgoers  hostile  to  new  blood; 
on  the  other  side  to  do  battle  against  them,  a  little  Jew, 
who  had  never  faced  an  audience  till  that  moment — a 
little  Jew  with  big  ears,  clad  in  the  classic  robes  of  a 
Grecian  king.  The  result  was  never  in  doubt.  The 
little  Jew  appeared — enormous  and  dominant.  His 
voice  sounded  like  a  great  bell  tolling.  The  rigid 
tragedy  throbbed  with  passion  and  life.  Horror  ap 
peared  like  something  tangible  on  the  most  cynical 
faces.  At  the  point  when  (Edipus  appears,  after  putting 
out  his  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to  his  children,  many 
persons  in  the  audience  screamed  and  fainted.  For 
days  all  Paris  talked  of  a  Greek  king  dead  these  thou 
sands  of  years. 

A  critic  is  said  to  have  asked  L'Ouvrier  at  this  time 
how,  being  a  smallish  man,  he  managed  to  make  him 
self  look  large. 

"By  thinking  large,"  said  L'Ouvrier. 

"And  with  whom  did  you  study  eloquence?" 

"With  silence." 

Pressed  to  explain  himself,  he  said :  "  I  went  into  the 
164 


desert,  at  a  season  when  no  winds  blow,  and  day  and 
night  there  is  complete  silence.  I  stood  it  as  long  at  I 
could.  Then  I  began  to  talk.  At  first  I  had  no  effect 
on  the  silence,  but  gradually  I  forced  it  out  of  my 
vicinity.  I  pretended  that  I  was  a  little  village.  I 
learned  to  produce  all  the  sounds  of  one — the  women 
scolding,  the  children  howling,  the  hens  clucking,  the 
dogs  barking.  I  peopled  the  solitude  and  amused 
myself  vastly." 

VI 

Simon  L'Ouvrier  became  the  talk  of  the  town. 
People  rushed  to  see  him,  and  scrambled  to  know 
him.  His  journal  was  published.  He  was  proclaimed 
a  conqueror,  not  over  nations,  but  over  matter  and 
mind.  The  French,  with  their  strong  leaning  to  fanati 
cal  worship,  set  him  upon  a  solitary  pinnacle,  in  the 
clouds  above  other  pinnacles,  and  saw  in  him  the  true 
apostle  of  art.  Nor  was  L'Ouvrier  backward  in  pro 
pounding  his  gospel.  He  had  worked,  suffered,  sacri 
ficed,  sowed — now  he  would  play,  rejoice,  smell  the 
grateful  incense,  and  reap. 

"In  the  beginning,"  he  said  on  one  occasion  to  a 
reporter,  "there  were  three  ambitions  in  my  family: 
my  father's,  to  have  me  bake  cakes  well;  my  mother's, 
to  have  me  marry  a  lady;  my  own,  to  become  a  great 
actor.  The  other  day  a  Royal  Personage  took  luncheon 

165 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

at  my  house,  incognito.  I  offered  him  a  little  cake 
which  I  had  compounded  and  baked  with  my  own 
hands.  He  pronounced  it  delicious.  Thus  my  father's 
ambition  for  me  may  be  said  to  have  borne  fruit.  I 
have  received  two  offers  of  marriage  from  women  who, 
to  judge  by  name  and  position,  if  not  conduct,  are  ladies. 
Thus  my  mother  may  rest  in  peace,  for,  while  I  shall 
not  marry  either  of  them,  I  could  if  I  would.  As  for 
my  own  ambition,  I  need  only  say  that  I  have  been  re 
ceived  with  ovations  by  the  people  of  Paris,  with  whom 
rests  the  last  word  in  things  appertaining  to  art.  If  I 
am  a  great  actor  it  is  because  I  have  worked  hard.  If 
I  am  not,  it  is  because  I  have  not  worked  hard  enough." 
By  what  kind  of  a  moral  code  did  this  curious  man 
live?  What  was  he  like?  The  first  question  is  the 
more  easily  answered.  He  gave  money  in  charity, 
lived  frugally  and  free  from  all  breath  of  scandal.  The 
second  question  is  difficult,  but,  from  combining  the 
accounts  of  those  who  knew  him  best,  I  have  concluded 
that  he  was  polite,  self-assured,  without  offense,  a  little 
stiff  and  distant,  a  better  talker  than  listener.  He 
dressed  quietly,  was  scrupulously  clean,  and  quite 
without  the  vagaries  of  lesser  stage  favorites.  He 
played  steadily  night  after  night  and  was  open  and 
consistent  in  his  business  obligations — in  short,  a  man 
of  his  word,  who  took  no  liberties  with  the  existing 
school  of  manners.  He  deserved  the  success  for  which 

166 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

he  had  given  so  much  mind  and  so  much  courage. 
There  could  be  no  better  proof  than  the  fact  that  his 
brother  and  sister  artists  admired  him  with  all  fervor 
and  no  jealousy.  He  must  then  have  been  a  very 
happy  man  at  this  time :  financially  and  socially  secure, 
enjoying  excellent  health,  and  the  promise  of  many 
years  during  which  he  should  give  infinite  pleasure  to 
multitudes  of  people — gloom  them  with  tragedy,  burst 
them  with  laughter.  But  fate  had  an  awful  blow  for 
him  in  her  bludgeon. 

When  he  first  met  Aime"e  de  Longueville  is  not  known. 
It  was  not  even  known  for  months  that  they  were  any 
thing  but  acquaintances.  Then  came  the  announce 
ment  of  their  engagement  and  approaching  marriage. 
All  Paris  rose  to  applaud.  Then  came  the  Charity 
Bazar  fire,  and  Aime'e  de  Longueville,  in  her  youth, 
beauty,  and  innocence,  was  burned  to  death — horribly, 
beyond  recognition. 

Simon  L'Ouvrier  did  not  receive  this  blow  in  a  man 
ner  worthy  of  his  manhood  and  his  genius.  He  left  the 
stage  and  plunged  into  every  excess  which  his  genius 
could  devise.  Houses  were  no  longer  open  to  him, 
society  cut  him,  the  press  forgot  him.  So  fast  a  pace 
did  he  go  that  in  less  than  a  year  he  presented  a  barely 
recognizable  shadow  of  himself,  a  malevolent,  evil 
shadow,  forever  dogging  the  footsteps  of  vice.  He  was 
dubbed  by  vicious  associates  "the  Wandering  Jew." 

167 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

All  this  is  very  unpleasant  to  think  about.  Let  us 
hasten  to  the  end. 

It  came  out  that  Aimee  de  Longueville's  mother  was 
starving.  The  directors  of  the  Fran9ais  organized  a 
benefit,  sought  out  Simon  L'Ouvrier,  and  begged  him 
to  take  part.  Besodden  as  he  was  with  drink,  it  took 
him  some  time  to  understand  what  was  wanted.  When 
he  did,  he  said:  "Very  well,  I  will  play  the  farewell 
scene  from  'GBdipus.'" 

The  fact  that  L'Ouvrier  was  once  more  to  exercise 
his  genius  set  Paris  by  the  ears  to  obtain  seats  at  the 
benefit.  And  those  who  were  lucky  enough  to  bid 
themselves  into  the  theatre  were  treated  to  a  perform 
ance  which,  though  great,  was  not  in  the  least  what 
they  had  expected.  L'Ouvrier  appeared  with  his  crown 
on  the  side  of  his  head,  two  enormous  glass  eyes  hang 
ing  around  his  neck  by  strings,  his  ears  wiggling,  and 
his  toes  turned  in.  He  spoke,  indeed,  the  heartrending 
words  of  (Edipus,  but  he  lent  to  their  utterance  the 
most  comical  inflections  and  by-play.  For  half  an  hour 
the  theatre  crashed  with  laughter;  people  howled  and 
held  their  sides.  When  the  curtain  fell  the  applause 
and  cries  for  L'Ouvrier  lasted  five  minutes.  The  man 
ager  stepped  before  the  curtain. 

"Monsieur  L'Ouvrier,"  said  he,  "wishes  me  to  thank 
you  for  your  kind  attention,  and  to  say  further  that 
he  has  gone  home  for  ever,  and  bids  you  farewell.  He 

168 


SIMON  L'OUVRIER 

wishes  me  to  thank  you  further  on  behalf  of  your  kind 
ness  to  the  memory  of  Aime'e  de  Longueville." 

Simon  L'Ouvrier  on  his  deathbed  with  consumption 
played  one  more  part. 

"How  long  have  I  to  live?"  said  he  to  the  doctor. 

"It  is  a  question  of  minutes,  my  poor  friend,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"  How  little  you  know,'^  said  L'Ouvrier.  "  Look,  I 
am  improving — I  am  getting  well." 

The  doctor  affirms  that  color  came  into  L'Ouvrier's 
cheeks,  that  his  temperature  and  pulse  became  normal, 
that  he  gave  orders  for  a  hearty  meal,  laughed  and 
joked  like  one  who  has  suddenly  and  successfully 
passed  a  serious  climax,  and  then,  exclaiming  hilari 
ously:  "I  can  still  do  it,"  collapsed  and  died. 


169 


VI 
A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S   DREAM 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S   DREAM 

While  I  was  dressing  for  dinner  the  moon  rose,  and  I 
could  see,  beyond  the  firm  island  studded  with  live 
oaks,  miles  of  shaky  rice  swamps  from  which  protruded 
the  mouths  of  straight,  narrow  canals,  looking  in  the 
moonlight  like  garden  paths  of  silver.  Far  to  the  left  a 
winding  screen  of  trees  hinted  of  a  river  at  its  feet,  while 
here  and  there  among  the  swamps  groups  of  live  oaks, 
bushy,  low-headed  and  immense;  like  Cyclopean  or 
chard  trees,  signified  that  the  region  was  either  in  process 
of  yielding  to  the  ocean  or  of  establishing  more  consist 
ently  the  hoop  of  a  continent.  Through  my  open  win 
dow  came  the  loud,  consumptive  coughing  and  chug 
ging  of  an  old-fashioned  stern-wheeler,  which  presently 
ceased  and  yielded  to  the  shouts  and  yells  of  negroes. 
And  I  knew  that  the  bi-weekly  steamer  trom  George 
town  was  being  made  fast  to  my  host's  wharf  and  that 
the  servants  were  welcoming  a  guest.  But  it  all  sounded 
like  an  act  of  piracy. 

My  host  knocked  and  asked  if  I  had  what  I  wanted. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "come  in,  will  you?" 

He  entered — a  long,  thin,  gracious  young  host,  in 
173 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

spotless  white  linen  dinner  clothes  which  contrasted  de 
lightfully  with  his  crimson  bow  tie  and  shining  brown 
face. 

"  Who's  being  murdered,"  I  asked. 

"It's  my  grandfather  Creighton,"  said  Creighton. 
"He  knew  that  you  were  to  be  here  to-night,  and 
many  nights,  and  he  proposes  to  be  among  the  first  to 
express  satisfaction." 

"How  far  has  he  come,"  I  asked. 

"Forty  miles  by  buggy  and  steamer." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"Eighty." 

"I  wish,"  I  said,  "that  I  could  do  something  to  de 
serve  so  much  honor." 

"You  can,"  said  Creighton. 

"How,"  said  I. 

"By  taking  a  drink  whenever  he  does,"  said  Creigh 
ton.  "I  can't,  because  I'm  married.  You'll  be  down 
in  a  minute?  If  not,  the  old  gentleman  will  visit  you 
with  a  cocktail.  The  mixer  and  ingredients  are  on  the 
hall  table  waiting  for  him —  Creighton  opened  the 
door  and  listened.  "Come  here,"  he  said.  Then  we 
both  began  to  laugh.  "  He  has  arrived,"  said  Creighton. 

We  could  hear  the  unmistakable  and  delectable  sound 
of  ice  and  liquid  being  shaken  in  a  cocktail  mixer.  By 
this  time  I  was  dressed  and  we  started  downstairs.  On 
the  landing  we  met  Grandfather  Creighton  coming  up. 

174 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

He  had  not  had  time  to  remove  his  hat  or  long  cloak, 
which  were  streaked  with  salt-water  stains,  for,  as  he 
afterward  said,  it  had  been  rough  crossing  Georgetown 
bay.  He  was  a  charming  little  old  gentleman  to  look 
at,  smooth-shaven  and  delicately  fashioned  like  a 
porcelain.  His  slender  hands  were  almost  as  white  as 
the  silver  tray  which  he  carried  and  upon  which  were 
three  straw-colored  cocktails  in  heavy  cut  glasses.  The 
old  gentleman  held  the  tray  steadily  with  one  hand  and 
employed  the  other  in  an  easy  and  graceful  removal  of 
his  hat. 

"I  attribute  this  meeting,"  said  he,  "to  the  good  fort 
une  which  has  followed  me  for  eighty  years.  Help 
yourselves." 

Creighton  took  his  grandfather's  hat  so  that  the  old 
gentleman  could  have  a  drinking  hand,  and  we  put 
down  our  cocktails  with  one  gesture,  as  it  were,  and  one 
swallowing  noise,  as  if  three  soldiers  trained  to  an  act 
of  discipline. 

"I  feel  that  we  are  better  acquainted  already,"  said 
the  old  gentleman.  "I  shall  be  forgiven  if  I  do  not  put 
on  my  evening  clothes?  My  granddaughter  by  mar 
riage  waits  for  no  man.  At  my  age  a  man  should  think 
twice  before  letting  his  soup  grow  cold." 

He  then  led  us  downstairs  to  the  hall  table  where  he 
found  the  cocktail  things  just  as  he  had  left  them. 
Attributing  this  to  the  good  fortune  which  had  followed 

175 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

him  for  eighty  years  he  mixed  three  more,  and  we 
joined  our  hostess  in  the  drawing-room. 

"  Why,  Grandfather  Creighton ! "  she  cried.  "  Could 
nothing  but  a  miserable  stranger  bring  you  to  see  us? 
What  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  all  this  time  ?" 

"I  have  been  suffering  from  thirst,"  said  the  old  gen 
tleman.  "That  I  have  occasionally  found  relief  I  attrib 
ute  to  the  good  fortune  which  has  followed  me  for 
eighty  years." 

During  dinner  champagne  was  served  before  I  had 
swallowed  my  oysters.  The  old  gentleman  was  silent 
and  uncommunicative.  But  as  he  prefaced  this  atti 
tude  by  stating  that  he  could  not  do  more  than  two 
things  at  once,  on  account  of  his  great  age,  we  allowed 
him  to  eat  and  drink  in  peace.  But  when  Mrs.  Creigh 
ton  left  us  and  coffee  was  brought  with  gigantic  cigars 
and  fiery  brandy,  the  old  gentleman  said  that  he  never 
smoked  until  he  had  drunk  as  much  as  he  could,  and 
began  to  carry  the  bulk  of  the  conversation.  This  at 
length  fell  on  ways  of  getting  rich,  legitimate  and  other 
ways.  Grandfather  Creighton  at  something  I  said 
about  so  and  so  being  no  better  than  a  pirate  chuckled 
immoderately. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "we  Creightons  are  rich  and  all  our 
money  comes  from  piracy,  entering  vessels  on  the  high 
seas,  and  murder.  We  didn't  do  it  ourselves;  it  was 
done  for  us.  We  reaped  the  benefit.  Those  pearls 

176 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHTS  DREAM 

which  Rob  Creighton  there  wears  in  his  shirt  bosom 
came  from  a  pair  of  Spanish  earrings  that  had  black 
hairs  tangled  in  them  and  their  clasps  broken  as  if  they 
had  been  torn  from  a  lady's  ears.  My  father  had  them 
broken  up — the  earrings — because  my  mother  thought 
the  design  unlovely,  and  because,  to  tell  the  truth,  which 
is  not  an  elegant  one,  the  settings  were  greasy.  All  this 
Santee  region,"  the  old  gentleman  went  on,  "its  rivers, 
tideways,  swamps,  seaward  ponds,  lagoons,  harbors 
and  turtle-backs  of  dry  land,  was  infested  by  pirates. 
When  I  was  a  big  boy  my  father  took  me  to  Charleston 
on  a  visit,  and  while  I  was  there  I  escaped  from  him  and 
went  to  see  one  hanged.  It  was  not  a  spirited  scene. 
The  poor  wretch  had  begged  a  bottle  of  laudanum  from 
his  jailor  and  was  in  no  condition  to  seize  the  opportu 
nity  which  fortune  had  given  of  making  his  exit  in  a 
gallant  and  sympathetic  manner.  But  when  I  was  a 
little  boy  pirates  were  not  so  sodden.  It  was  then  that 
the  golden  harvest  of  their  nefarious  doings  was  gath 
ered  by  us  Creightons  and  put  once  more  to  Christian 
employment;  that  is,  to  drawing  interest.  One-eyed 
Limb,  an  escaped  slave,  was  the  particular  devil  of  this 
vicinity — a  great  pirate,  sir,  as  black-hearted  as  skinned, 
astute,  cunning,  of  a  skill  with  weapons  that  bordered 
on  the  divine,  malicious,  humorous,  and  of  an  audacity 
and  sheer  courage  that  compelled  a  kind  of  admiration, 
even  from  white  men. 

177 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

"I  was  the  last  person,  sir,  to  see  one-eyed  Limb 
alive.  He  met  his  God  or  his  devil,  sir,  over  yonder  on  the 
sea  beaches  where  Gunpowder  creek  flows  into  ocean. 

"The  fresh  sea-gull  eggs, mackerel  and  flood-gull,  and 
the  certainty  to  hook  a  drum,  frequently  drew  me  thither 
when  I  was  a  little  boy.  My  nurse's  stories  of  the  hor 
rible  deeds  upon  bad  little  boys  of  one-eyed  Limb  and 
other  notable  pirates  of  our  Carolina  coast  as  frequently 
inspired  me  to  stay  away.  Even  the  grown  folk  did  not 
feel  entirely  secure.  For,  from  time  to  time,  we  could 
see  from  these  very  dining-room  windows  the  glow 
of  fires  far  off  reflected  upon  the  sky,  and  hear  the 
sounds  of  wild  men  in  liquor.  There  were  more  preg 
nant  alarms  than  these  sometimes,  and  once,  sir,  my 
father  and  a  number  of  gentlemen  who  were  his  guests, 
firing  from  the  upper  chambers,  stood  off  a  deliberate 
attempt  of  one-eyed  Limb  to  raze  the  plantation.  On 
that  occasion  there  was  enough  carnage  among  the  pi 
rates  to  reduce  their  ambition.  My  nurse  carried  me  in 
her  arms  to  the  carriage-house  where  the  corpses  had 
been  ranged.  There  were  eleven  of  them,  with  eleven 
types  of  bad  faces — black,  white  and  yellow.  My 
mother  was  for  having  them  decently  buried,  but  my 
father  gave  orders  to  have  stones  attached  to  their  necks 
and  to  sink  them  in  the  river. 

"Among  Limb's  crew  were  a  number  of  escaped 
slaves — two  from  this  very  plantation — and  it  was  not, 

178 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

therefore,  unnatural  that  rumors  of  what  the  pirates 
were  about  doing  or  intending  reached  us  from  time  to 
time  through  the  quarters.  We  heard,  for  instance, 
that  Limb  would  take  a  terrible  revenge  for  the  loss  of 
his  eleven  companions,  and  for  nearly  two  years  my 
father  maintained  an  elaborate  system  of  outposts  and 
signals ;  but  with  the  exception  of  a  few  shots  fired  upon 
the  house  from  afar  and  quite  at  random,  and  the  mys 
terious  disappearance  from  the  quarters  of  three  plump 
wenches,  nothing  of  a  permanently  alarming  nature 
occurred.  .  .  .  You  are  neglecting  the  brandy. 

"The  pirates  had  their  village  by  the  fresh-water 
pond  on  Long  Bear,  where  we  will  take  you  wild  fowl 
ing  when  you  are  less  tired  than  you  will  be  to-morrow 
morning,  and,  always  through  the  quarters,  we  heard 
of  their  government  and  civic  life.  These  consisted  in 
allowing  matters  to  run  from  bad  to  worse,  until  one- 
eyed  Limb  himself  could  not  endure  the  disorder.  He 
would  then  rouse  himself,  go  forth  armed  from  his 
cabin,  do  a  murder  or  two,  put  the  quiet  of  death  upon 
the  village  and  return  to  his  wives.  Once  we  heard 
that  the  yellow  fever  had  broken  out  among  the  pirates, 
and  that  they  were  in  a  fair  way  to  be  exterminated. 
That  alarmed  us  far  more  than  any  rumor  of  attack. 
As  a  fact,  however,  the  village  was  agreeably  and  health 
ily  situated,  and  autumn  breezes  off  ocean  put  an  end  to 
the  plague. 

179 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

"  It  was  the  spring  following  that  a  longing  came  upon 
me  to  know  if  the  gulls  had  commenced  to  lay.  I  at 
tribute  this  to  the  good  fortune  which  has  followed  me 
for  eighty  years  and  to  which  I  will  empty  this  diminu 
tive  glass  of  liquor. 

"I  gave  orders  to  have  my  canoe  provisioned  and  in 
readiness  for  a  start  two  hours  before  sunrise.  I 
threatened  my  body  servants — I  had  two,  big  hardy 
young  bucks,  Yap  and  Yaff — with  a  hundred  lashes 
apiece  if  they  overslept,  and  sent  them  early  to  bed. 

"At  about  the  appointed  time  we  started,  Yap  in  the 
bow,  Yaff  in  the  stern,  and  myself  amidships,  with  my 
little  fowling-piece  and  a  number  of  soft  rugs.  The 
night  fog  was  still  upon  the  water,  cold  and  opaque.  I 
ordered  the  paddlers  not  to  loiter,  and,  drawing  the  rugs 
about  me,  lay  flat  and  slept.  I  was  twelve  years  old 
then,  and  now  I  am  eighty.  In  all  the  intervening 
years  I  have  never  lost  the  power  to  sleep.  When  we 
retired  in  order  after  Gettysburg,  sir,  I  slept  in  the  sad 
dle  for  six  hours.  I  have  thus  ever  been  able  to  give 
myself  relief  from  mental  anguish,  which  is  the  secret 
of  longevity. 

"I  awoke  at  the  commencement  of  sunrise,  in  time  to 
admire  the  dissipation  of  the  fog  and  the  looming  into 
view  of  our  wild  amphibious  landscape.  We  were  de 
scending  Gunpowder  Creek  at  the  leaping  pace  of  a 
strongly  paddled  tide-borne  canoe.  I  could  hear  already 

180 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

the  cries  of  the  gulls  and  the  reverberations  of  ocean 
beating  upon  the  hard  beaches.  A  wholesome  salt 
wind  had  arisen  and  was  blowing  strongly  in  our  faces. 
We  had  entered  that  part  of  Gunpowder  Creek  where 
its  swampy  shores  yield  for  a  while  to  firm  banks  dense 
with  bushes  and  salt-stunted  trees,  when  Yap,  who  had 
the  bow  paddle,  relieved  a  hand  and  held  it  up  for  si 
lence.  Yaff  let  his  paddle,  too,  trail  in  the  water  and 
we  listened.  The  wind  bore  us  the  sound  of  oars 
grinding  against  tholl  pins  and  the  murmur  of  a  voice 
humming  in  a  minor  key. 

"Black  man's  voice/  said  Yap,  and  under  his  own 
ebony  hide  appeared  a  sudden  visitation  of  leprosy- 
white  blotches.  It  was  a  credited  story  among  the  ne 
groes  that  one-eyed  Limb  went  about  the  more  devilish 
of  his  deeds  sweetly  singing. 

"'Land! 'said  I. 

"In  a  few  seconds  we  were  back  in  the  bushes,  canoe 
and  all.  But  had  it  not  been  for  the  strength  of  the 
wind  and  its  direction  we  must  have  been  heard  and,  as 
events  bore  out,  run  to  our  cover  and  murdered.  Mind 
ful  of  what  was  expected  of  me  as  white  and  a  master,  I 
left  the  negroes,  enjoining  them  to  lie  flat  and  make  not 
a  sound  until  I  returned,  and  proceeded  to  work  my 
way  through  the  bushes  to  the  open  marsh  behind  them, 
a  matter  of  not  more  than  thirty  yards,  then  down 
stream,  perhaps  a  hundred  yards;  and  then  diagonally, 

181 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

once  more  through  the  bushes,  to  gain  a  view  of  the 
creek  beyond  the  bend  which  I  had  thus  eliminated. 

"Toward  the  sand}7  shore  of  the  cove  thus  discovered 
to  my  eyes,  a  row  boat,  far  out  on  the  bosom  of  the 
creek,  here  as  wide  as  a  river,  was  heading.  It  con 
tained  five  negroes  naked  to  the  waist.  Four  had  their 
backs  to  me  and  were  rowing.  The  fifth,  sitting  in  the 
stern,  faced  me  and  steered  with  a  long  oar.  He  it  was 
whom  we  had  heard  humming,  for  as  I  looked  he  re 
commenced  to  a  different  tune,  and  I  was  able  to  dis 
tinguish  the  words  of  a  song  still  current  among  our 
coast  negroes.  The  song  moved  slowly  and  the  boat 
fast: 

Gambler,  Gambler,  yo'  dice  am  gwine  deceibe  you! 

Gambler,  Gambler,  yo'  dice  am  gwine  deceibe  you! 

Gambler,  Gambler,  yo'  dice  am  gwine  deceibe  you! 

Way  down  in  the  grabe! 

By  the  time  the  song  had  progressed  to  that  point, 
and  it  was  rendered  in  a  wonderful,  sweet,  sad  voice, 
the  boat  had  come  so  near  that  I  could  see  the  singer  as 
plainly  as  I  see  Robert  there.  He  was  a  very  small  man, 
thin  to  emaciation,  and  black  as  the  pit.  He  had  the 
head  and  face  of  a  much  larger  man,  and  at  first  I 
thought  that  he  was  blind,  for  my  vision  in  that  first 
glance  seemed  to  have  embraced  only  the  left  side  of  his 
face  which  had  a  cavity  instead  of  an  eye.  Indeed, 
when  I  first  saw  him  his  one  eye  must  have  been  closed 

182 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

or  I  could  never  have  overlooked  it.  It  opened  now 
and  I  saw  what  looked  like  the  end  of  a  disgusting  yel 
low  egg  sticking  from  the  man's  skull.  If  that  eye  had 
any  iris  it  was  of  a  yellow  indistinguishable  from  its  set 
ting.  I  had  a  longing,  hardly  to  be  denied,  to  empty 
my  stomach  of  its  contents  and  scream.  I  closed  my 
eyes  and  the  nausea  passed.  While  I  lay  with  closed 
eyes,  Limb,  for  there  remained  no  doubt  under  heaven 
that  it  was  he,  began  and  concluded,  with  what  cloying 
sweetness  of  voice  I  cannot  hope  to  describe,  the  second 
stanza  of  his  chantey: 

Mother,  mother,  yo'  daughter  gwine  deceibe  yo'l 
Mother,  mother,  yo'  daughter  gwine  deceibe  yo'! 
Mother,  mother,  yo'  daughter  gwine  deceibe  yo'l 
Way  down  in  de  grabe. 

"I  screwed  my  courage  up  to  the  looking  point  and 
discovered  that  the  oarsmen  were  in  the  act  of  giving 
the  boat  the  last  impetus  which  should  carry  it  to  the 
shore.  The  muscles  on  the  great  black  backs  and 
shoulders  rippled  under  the  shining  hides  like  deft  fingers 
playing  indescribably  complicated  instruments.  Limb 
nodded  his  chuckle  head  as  if  he  did  not  wish  by  speak 
ing  to  interrupt  himself  in  the  train  of  thought  inspired 
by  his  own  singing,  the  oars  came  inboard  silently,  and 
the  boat  with  diminishing  speed  drifted  at  once  down 
the  creek  and  toward  the  shore.  This  would  make  the 
landing  further  below  me  than  my  first  conclusion  had 

183 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

dared  allow,  and  the  relief  to  my  overstrained  courage 
and  imagination  was  so  great  that  the  saliva  gathered 
head  in  my  mouth  and  ran  out  between  my  lips.  I 
saw  now  that  amidships  in  the  boat  was  a  seaman's 
chest  painted  a  sky  blue  and  reinforced  with  heteroge 
neous  pieces  of  sheet-iron  nailed  to  the  edges  and  cor 
ners.  Limb  sang  a  little  louder,  a  little  faster: 

Thunder,  thunder,  thunder,  roll  ober  yonder! 
Thunder,  thunder,  thunder,  roll  ober  yonder! 
Thunder,  thunder,  thunder,  roll  ober  yonder! 
Way  down  in  de  grabe. 

"  And  the  boat  ran  on  the  beach.  Before  the  rowers 
could  move  Limb  hopped  from  his  seat  to  the  top  of  the 
chest,  with  a  something  in  his  movement  that  reminded 
you  of  a  flea,  set  foot  for  the  smallest  fraction  of  time  on 
the  nearest  black  shoulder,  and  was  ashore.  The  man 
who  had  been  used  as  a  stepping-stone  turned  his  head 
slowly,  all  the  while  rubbing  his  shoulder,  and  gave 
Limb  a  grin,  at  once  so  sheepish,  adoring,  good-natured, 
and  comical  that  my  own  mouth  began  to  smile  with  his. 

"My  nurse  had  often  regaled  my  youthful  imagina 
tion  with  the  magnificence  of  costume  usually  sported 
by  pirates.  What  the  poverty  of  raiment  which  covered 
the  corpses  of  the  pirates  that  I  had  been  shown  in  the 
carriage-house  had  failed  practically  to  establish  (for  all 
children  struggle  against  fact  to  retain  their  grasp  of  the 
picturesque  and  romantic)  was  now  certified.  The 

184 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

men  before  me  were  clad  only  in  dirty  patched  trowsers. 
They  had  neither  hats,  shoes  nor  weapons,  unless  Limb, 
whose  diminutive  waist  was  surrounded  by  a  tawdry 
chequered  sash,  had  one  concealed  therein.  As  events 
proved  he  had.  But  I  saw  none  then,  and  began  to 
pluck  up  my  spirits,  for  I  at  least  had  a  fowling-piece. 
Then  it  occurred  to  me  to  be  dashed  from  that  point  of 
comfort  by  wondering  if  I  had  loaded  it  or  not.  Mem 
ory  refused  to  be  cajoled.  Had  I,  if  discovered,  one 
shot  between  me  and  massacre  was  a  speculation  that  I 
could  not  answer. 

"Limb  and  the  four  rowers  now  drew  the  boat  high 
and  dry  on  the  sands  of  the  cove,  and  not  without  labor 
got  the  chest  out  of  her.  Limb  then  ordered  one  of  the 
men  to  scratch  his  back  for  him  and  for  several  mo 
ments  gave  himself  up  to  the  process  with  the  most 
evident  signs  of  relish.  After  that  they  hove  up  the 
chest  and  staggered  into  the  bushes  with  it. 

"They  did  not  go  very  far  and  presently  the  one  who 
had  scratched  Limb's  back  returned  to  the  boat  and  took 
out  of  it  a  pick  and  a  shovel.  He  paused  long  enough 
to  kneel  in  the  sand  and  souse  his  head  in  the  creek. 
Then  he  took  up  the  tools  and  went  back  into  the  bushes. 

"They  were  an  unconscionable  time  burying  the 
chest  to  their  own  satisfaction,  owing,  I  suppose,  to  the 
tough  and  intricate  network  of  roots,  through  which 
they  must  cut,  and  I  was  about  concluding  that  the 

185 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

sflence  and  suspense  were  to  last  forever  when  the  most 
awful  and  sudden  burst  of  screaming  split  my  ears. 
There  was  a  frenzied  thrashing  in  the  bushes,  and  out 
burst  the  negro  who  had  grinned,  running  for  his  life. 
Behind  him  came,  ran,  hopped,  flew — I  know  of  no 
word  that  describes  the  kind  or  the  speed  of  such  un 
earthly  locomotion — Limb.  There  was  a  blazing  in 
my  eyes  like  that  of  sun  rays  deflected  and  concentrated 
by  a  mirror.  It  passed  and  I  saw  Limb's  black  pipe- 
stem  arm  drive  with  a  knife  at  the  back  of  the  runner's 
neck.  I  saw  him  wrench  it  out  and,  as  the  stricken 
man  whirled  and  fell,  drive  it  to  the  hilt  in  his  con 
vulsed  face. 

"Then,  possessing  himself  of  the  knife  which  had 
been  torn  from  his  hand,  he  walked  quietly  back  into 
the  bushes  from  which  he  had  just  emerged  with  such 
demoniac  speed.  Presently  I  heard  him  speak  in  a  quiet 
conversational  tone  that  had  the  effect  of  a  diabolic  sneer: 

"'Ain't  you  daid  yet,  Bluebell?' 

"Then  I  heard  the  horrid  sound  with  which  I  had 
become  familiar,  of  a  knife  driven  home — once — twice 
.  .  .  and  the  drawling  voice  again : 

"'Now  you  is  sho  daid,  Bluebell.'  And  out  of  the 
bushes  he  strolled,  singing,  sweet  and  clear: 

"  '  Sailor,  sailor,  yo'  captain  gwine  deceibe  you/ 

"At  the  same  instant  a  little  voice  began  to  say  in  my 
186 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

head:  'You  loaded  that  gun,  I  saw  you.  You  put  in 
buck-shot  in  case  you  saw  deer  or  pig.  Don't  you  re 
member.  I  saw  you  do  it.'  Whether  I  believed  or  not 
I  do  not  know.  Likely  as  not  I  did,  for  when  Limb 
turned  and  bent  to  launch  the  boat  I  aimed  very  care 
fully  at  the  little  row  of  whitish  knobs  made  by  his  spine 
just  above  his  trowsers,  and  the  gun  went  off.  I  saw 
no  distinct  picture  in  what  followed,  only  a  kaleido 
scopic  miracle  of  black  pipe-stem  arms  and  legs  that 
whirled  about  a  focus  made  by  one  awful  yellow  eye. 
I  buried  my  face  in  my  hands  and  screamed  aloud. 
And  I  think,  sir,  that  I  must  have  passed  into  a  state  of 
unconsciousness.  For  when  I  once  more  saw  the  boat 
and  one-eyed  Limb  there  sat  upon  the  gunwhale  of  the 
first  three  buzzards,  and  upon  the  chest  of  the  second, 
one. 

"And  that,  sir,"  concluded  the  old  gentleman,  "was 
the  foundation  of  the  Creighton  fortune.  And,  sir," 
said  he,  glaring  savagely,  for  the  brandy  was  beginning 
to  affect  him,  "  I  should  like  to  see  the  man  that  would 
deny  to  my  father  the  possession  of  the  nicest  sense  of 
honor  and  integrity  imaginable.  He  made  no  bones, 
sir,  about  accepting  the  treasure  contained  in  the  blue 
chest,  and  presented  to  him  by  an  all-wise  Providence 
and  a  dutiful  son.  .  .  . 

"Creighton,"  said  I,  when  the  old  gentleman,  after  a 
few  indignant  puffs,  had  given  himself  to  the  firm  em- 

187 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

brace  of  sleep,  "it  is  not  the  part  of  a  guest  to  impeach 
the  veracity  of  a  host's  grandfather,  but  a  little  further 
down  the  coast,  from  the  lips  of  August  Lesage  (dear 
old  man!)  I  have  heard  a  very  similar  story  about  a 
very  similar  pirate,  according  to  which  narrative, 
smacking  with  the  first  personal  pronoun,  was  similarly 
founded  a  similar  fortune.  Did  all  your  grandfathers 
eat  pirates?" 

"August  Lesage's  treasure  chest  was  painted  green, 
I  think,"  said  Creighton  reflectively,  "and  his  Limb 
lacked  the  right  eye.  My  dear  sir,  all  gentlemen  are 
liars.  My  grandfather,  with  all  due  honor  to  his  white 
hairs,  has  never  been  known  to  speak  the  truth  or  to 
tell  an  injurious  lie.  In  the  Northern  States  men  lie  for 
profit;  we  of  the  South  lie  only  to  entertain  each  other 
and  our  guests.  It  is  to  this  fact  more  than  to  any 
other  that  my  grandfather  attributes  the  good  fortune 
which  has  followed  him  for  eighty  years.  Shall  we  go 
to  bed  ?  My  grandfather  will  not  be  alarmed  when  he 
wakes  and  finds  himself  alone  with  what  is  left  of  the 
brandy.  When  that  is  gone,  he  will  go  to  sleep,  either 
here  or  in  his  bed,  for,  as  he  himself  says,  the  power  to 
sleep  has  not  failed  him  for  eighty  years  whenever  he 
has  found  it  necessary  to  put  a  snuffer  on  mental 
anguish." 

"How  did  you  Creightons  make  your  money?"  I 
asked. 

188 


A  CAROLINA  NIGHT'S  DREAM 

"One  of  us  lied — for  profit,"  said  Creighton.  "Rest 
his  soul!  He  is  the  only  one  of  all  my  ancestors  for 
whom  I  have  entire  respect.  Since  for  the  benefit  of  his 
family  he  sacrificed  those  qualities  which  are  most  pre 
cious  to  a  man — his  integrity  and  his  self-respect — he, 
no  doubt,  rests  in  peace." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  I,  "while,"  said  he,  "our  less 
provident  ancestors — merely — slumber." 

Fortunately  I  am  not  married  and  have  no  children, 
for  ten  minutes  later  I  was  merely  slumbering. 

The  old  gentleman  came  to  my  room  late  the  next 
morning.  He  winked  and  said,  "Let  us  visit  the 
treasure  chest." 

We  did.  Among  other  precious  things  it  contained 
ice. 


189 


VII 

THE  STOWING  AWAY  OF  MR.  BILL 
BALLAD 


THE  STOWING  AWAY  OF  MR.  BILL 
BALLAD 

When  Mr.  Bill  Ballad  saw,  through  the  wraith  of 
white  smoke  which  his  pistol  had  made,  the  sudden  and 
terrible  contortion  of  Mr.  Heigh's  face,  the  staring  eyes, 
the  opening  and  shutting  mouth,  dreadfully  grinning; 
when  he  saw  Mr.  Heigh's  left  leg  buckle  like  an  over- 
canvased  spar  in  a  squall;  when  he  saw  Mr.  Heigh 
writhing  on  the  turf,  and  when  he  heard  the  sheriff, 
panting  from  hard  running,  bellow,  "Arrest  that  man!" 
then  it  was  that  Mr.  Bill  Ballad  forgot  the  exquisite 
quixotism  which  had  led  him  to  make  one  of  a  duel 
with  Mr.  Heigh;  then  it  was  that  he  forgot  the  excellent 
nerve  with  which  he  had  faced  the  detonation  of  his  ad 
versary's  weapon,  forgot  his  dignity,  forgot  his  philoso 
phy,  forgot  those  debts  and  that  unsuccess  which,  dark 
ening  the  sun  of  his  young  days,  had  made  him  reck 
less;  forgot  the  delicious  face  of  Miss  Gremley,  with 
whom  he  was  not  acquainted,  but  in  whose  cause  he 
had  fought;  forgot  everything  but  his  bump  of  locality, 
and  incontinently  took  to  his  toes. 

The  sheriff  and  the  sheriff's  man  ran  over  the  graves 
193 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

and  in  and  out  of  the  headstones  with  the  celerity  of 
staghounds,  but  Mr.  Bill  Ballad  passed  over  the  nar 
row  houses  of  the  dead  like  a  swooping  hawk,  took  the 
low  wall  of  the  burying  ground  in  his  stride,  went  down 
Eden  Street  like  a  gust  of  wind,  turned  into  Turtle  Lane 
and  covered  the  length  of  it  like  a  thrown  stone,  passed 
the  place  of  business  of  his  late  adversary,  was  dimly 
conscious  of  the  letters  on  the  firm's  shingle:  Flower  & 
Heigh — seed  merchants,  bolted  down  Ship  Street  toward 
the  wharves,  and  finally  took  breathless  refuge  in  the 
sail-loft  of  Messrs.  Spar  &  Marlin,  riggers  of  ships,  and 
there,  buried  from  view  among  ropes,  rope  ends,  can 
vas,  and  old  sacks,  he  lay  and  sobbed;  for  it  is  dreadful  at 
twenty-two  to  be  over  ears  in  debt,  a  writer  of  philoso 
phies  to  which  the  ears  of  the  world  are  deaf,  and  liable  at 
any  moment  to  be  laid  by  the  ears  for  the  killing  of  a  man. 

It  was  not  until  five  in  the  afternoon  that  Mr.  Bill 
Ballad  looked  up  from  his  despair,  ceased  from  his 
sobs,  and  remarked  to  the  canvas  ghosts  in  the  sail 
loft:  "When  you  are  fallen  as  low  as  is  possible,  you 
can  fall  no  lower;  nothing  is  stable;  all  things  move 
either  up  or  down;  wherefore,  since  I  can  no  lower  fall 
and  since  I  may  not  remain  stably  fallen,  I  must  in  some 
measure  rise.  Food  would  boost  me." 

He  now  took  measures  to  make  his  body  more  com 
fortable;  a  bunching  of  canvas  here,  a  spreading  of  it 
there,  a  rolling  over  of  himself,  and  a  fine  yawn. 

194 


OF  MR.  BILL  BALLAD 

"At  least,"  said  he,  "I  have  done  what  I  set  out  to 
do,  for  Mr.  Heigh  will  not  marry  Miss  Gremley  in  the 
morning — for  the  present  I  am  safe,  and  blessings  be 
showered  on  the  head  of  the  unfaithful  servant  who  for 
got  to  lock  the  door  of  this  place  on  a  holiday.  As  for 
the  future,  the  darkness  will  provide.  Come  night — 
heavens  be  overcast — moon  be  hidden — stars  be  blank 
eted — and  grant,  O  merciful  Lord,  that  Jemmy  be  in 
his  house  when  I  do  call." 

Then  he  fell  to  thinking  of  that  little  book,  "The  Age 
of  Folly,"  the  gisty  matter  between  the  blue  boards,  and 
of  the  public — the  great,  blind,  stuttering,  strutting 
child  which  preferred  the  toys  brain-y-factured  by  other 
men — and,  tossing  uneasily,  he  said:  "I  don't  see  why 
in  hell  it  doesn't  sell,"  and  fell  asleep. 

Thick  was  the  night,  hidden  the  moon,  blanketed  the 
stars,  and  Jemmy  was  in  his  house  at  the  time  when 
Mr.  Bill  Ballad  came  to  call.  Jemmy  had  been  in  his 
house  since  noon.  Jemmy,  taking  advantage  of  the 
holiday,  had  risen  early  and  drank  himself  unconscious; 
unconscious  he  had  lain  on  the  floor  of  his  library 
through  the  late  afternoon,  the  evening,  and  part  of  the 
night.  Unconscious  he  lay  when  Mr.  Bill  Ballad 
slipped  through  the  open  window,  but  when  Mr.  Bill 
Ballad  shook  him  by  the  arm  (as  one  testing  the  mech 
anism  of  a  new  pump)  he  began  to  awake. 

"  Wha'  time  is  it?"  he  said. 
195 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

"Midnight,"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 

"Time  turn  in/'  said  Jemmy,  sighing. 

"  Wake  up,"  said  Mr.  Ballad.     "  My  life's  in  danger." 

"What  light's  in  danger?"  inquired  Jemmy.  "Put 
it  out." 

"Wake  up,  you  drunken  swine." 

"Swine  yourself — swine  herself — swine  himself — all 
swine  holiday  this  morning." 

"Jemmy,  does  any  ship  sail  from  here  in  the  morn- 
ing?" 

"Thish  my  library — ships  don't  sail  from  libraries. 
Library  place  to  sleep  in — nice  to  lie  on  snuggle  rug  an' 
sleep." 

"Would  a  good  kicking  help  you,  Jemmy?" 

It  did.     Jemmy  sat  up. 

"What  you  kicking  me  for  ?" 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  "but  I  thought 
you  were  dead.  Will  you  try  and  pull  yourself  together, 
please  ?  I'm  in  trouble." 

"Wait  till  I  wash  my  face,  then."  Jemmy  arose  and 
left  the  room  somnolently.  He  returned  much  re 
freshed.  "  Now  you  may  fire  away,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Bill  Ballad  shuddered.  And  then  he  told  Jemmy 
his  trouble.  "Have  you  heard  nothing  of  it?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  said  Jemmy,  "I  don't  remember  anything 
after  noon.  You  may  not  have  hurt  him  much." 

196 


OF  MR.   BILL  BALLAD 

"O  Jemmy — I  saw  his  face — I  heard  the  breath 
whistle  out  of  him — and,  O  God!  I  saw  him  fall." 

Jemmy  began  to  think  hard. 

"The  Mallow"  he  said  presently,  "goes  out  in  the 
morning  tide,  in  hides,  for  Jamaica.  If  we  can  slip  you 
aboard,  and  hide  you,  well  provisioned— 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Mr.  Ballad,  "that's  the  thing— it's 
making  up  for  a  brute  of  a  blow,  and  there'll  be  no  one 
on  deck.  But  where'll  I  hide?" 

"I  can't  think  of  the  name  of  the  place,"  said 
Jemmy;  "wait — no,  I  can't  think — but  I  know  the 
hatch  that  opens  into  it — it's  below  the  fo'c's'le — where 
they  keep  spare  stores — what  in  hell — no,  I  can't 
think." 

"  We  must  start  at  once." 

"We  must  larder  you  first." 

"What  have  you  in  the  house?" 

"We'll  look.  Then  they  began  to  rummage.  They 
found  a  ham,  two  loaves  of  bread,  one  loaf  of  spice  cake, 
and  a  fine  hunk  of  cheese. 

"You  must  have  water,"  said  Jemmy,  and  he  filled  a 
great  stone  jug.  "Want  any  wine?" 

"No— no,"  cried  Mr.  Bill  Ballad,  "I  have  had 
enough  wine  to  last  me  till  the  Judgment  Day,  and  to 
damn  me  then." 

"I  haven't,"  said  Jemmy,  "but  I  shall  hope  to  have 
had.  Come  along,  boy — take  my  blue  cloak.  .  .  . 

197 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

Hold  hard,  you'll  want  flint  and  steel  and  a  lantern 
.  .  .  have  you  your  watch?" 

"Herodotus,  the  Jew,  hath  it,"  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"You  shall  have  mine.  Now,  then,  I'll  look  abroad 
a  little;  it  may  be  that  the  coast  is  obscure." 

The  front  door  struggled  in  Jemmy's  hands  like  a 
live  thing.  "All  the  glims  of  heaven  are  doused,"  said 
he,  "and  it's  blowing  like  hell.  Come  along." 

The  streets  were  deserted,  but  lively  with  the  rustling 
of  dead  leaves,  and  the  blowing  about  of  all  that  was 
unstable.  Jemmy  and  Mr.  Bill  Ballad,  each  with  a 
sack  of  provisions  over  his  shoulder,  slunk  through  the 
dark  and  blowy  town  like  a  pair  of  marauders  laden 
with  plate.  In  Ship  Street,  a  malicious  inequality  of  the 
paving  caught  Jemmy  by  one  of  his  unsteady  feet  and 
hurled  him  to  the  ground.  "O  Liberty!"  he  cried, 
"  what  crimes  are  committed  in  thy  name." 

He  gathered  himself  and  his  sack  together,  and  they 
went  on.  Jemmy  owned  a  staunch  skiff,  out  of  which 
the  two  friends  had  often  shot  at  wild-fowls.  They 
found  her  riding  snugly  in  the  lee  of  Mr.  Caruthers' 
long  wharf  and  embarked.  Rounding  the  end  of  the 
wharf,  the  wind  and  sea  struck  her  in  power. 

"Can  you  keep  her  head  to  it,  Jemmy  ?" 

"Watch  me."  The  oars  tore  at  the  water,  the  wind 
tore  at  the  skiff,  the  water  slammed  her  on  the  bows, 

198 


OF  MR.  BILL  BALLAD 

but  inch  by  inch  she  dropped  the  long  wharf  behind 
and  made  headway  into  the  whistling  dark. 

"  Where  does  the  Mallow  lie  ?"  Mr.  Bill  Ballad  was 
obliged  to  trumpet  his  hands  and  bellow  the  question. 

Jemmy,  his  teeth  gritted  and  his  breath  coming  and 
going  in  great  grunts,  jerked  his  head  backward  for 
answer. 

"Hope  to — we  can  find  her,"  bellowed  Mr.  Ballad. 
Twenty  minutes  later  Jemmy  rested  on  his  oars  and 
began  to  look  about  him,  trying  with  sweat-filled  eyes 
to  pierce  the  black.  At  that  moment,  as  a  joker  might 
suddenly  snatch  back  the  bedclothes  from  one  sleeping, 
the  storm  fairly  ripped  a  cloud  from  before  the  face  of 
the  Lady  Moon.  For  an  instant  the  backs  of  the  charg 
ing  waves  glimmered;  for  an  instant,  as  if  revealed  by 
pale  lightning,  the  harbor  became  a  shape  and  familiar 
landmarks  flashed  into  view;  for  an  instant  the  two 
friends  beheld  the  great  black  bulk  of  a  ship  leaping 
back  against  the  bite  of  her  mooring  chain;  and  then 
out  went  the  moon,  and  Jemmy,  heading  the  skiff  in  the 
ascertained  direction,  began  to  row  like  mad. 

Ten  minutes  later,  dripping  and  bruised,  they  had 
won  over  the  side  of  the  leaping  ship  and  were  creeping 
forward  along  her  creaking  deck. 

Jemmy  pulled  the  hatch  to,  and  the  roaring  of  the 
weather  was  cut  off  as  clearly  as  a  slice  of  bread  is  cut 
off  by  a  sharp  knife. 

199 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

"Whew,"  said  Jemmy. 

"Thank  God,"  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad. 

They  lit  the  lantern,  and  found  that  they  were  in  a 
triangular  place  three  parts  full  of  undeterminate  bulk, 
and  wholly  full  of  the  nauseating  odor  of  bilge  water 
and  unclean  woodwork. 

"You'll  be  very  comfortable  here,"  said  Jemmy. 
"God  bless  you,  my  boy,  and  good  luck.  Will  write 
you  to  Jamaica  and  give  you  the  news."  He  held  out 
his  hand. 

"Jemmy,"  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad,  "you  know  Miss 
Gremley — a  long  time  from  now  tell  her  my  story;  how 
I  saw  her  but  once,  yet  could  not  bear  to  think  that  so 
much  loveliness  should  be  sold  to  an  old  man;  tell  her 
that  for  the  sake  of  all  her  excellence  I  fought  and  came 
to  an  unhappy  end" — Mr.  Bill  Ballad  was  almost  aburst 
with  tears — "tell  her  this  a  long  time  from  now,  so  that 
she  may  say  in  her  heart:  'Ah,  but  one  man  loved  me.' 
.  :  .  God  bless  you,  Jemmy  .  .  .  will  you  make  back 
all  right?" 

"The  wind  will  hand  me  ashore,"  said  Jemmy,  "just 
as  after  dancing  with  her  a  courteous  gentleman  hands 
a  Beautiful  young  lady  back  to  the  seat  beside  her 
mother.  I  hate  to  leave  you  with  nothing  to  drink  but 
water." 

The  trap  opened — the  howls  of  the  wind  sounded — 
the  trap  closed — and  the  howls  ceased.  Mr.  Ballad 

200 


OF  MR.  BILL  BALLAD 

found  himself  alone  in  the  shifting,  creaking,  stinking 
asylum  that  he  had  chosen,  and  shed  a  few  tears. 

Nelson,  eater  of  ships,  sea-lion,  scourge  of  Napoleon, 
etc.,  was  often  made  dreadfully  sick  by  the  great  bil 
lows  of  his  chosen  element,  so  that  had  there  been  no 
fighting  to  do,  one  might  be  tempted  to  exclaim:  "Mon 
Dieu,  qu'allait  il  fair  dans  cette  galere  ?'"  But  the  busi 
ness  of  fighting  seems  to  have  taken  his  mind  off  the 
dolorous  motions  of  his  flagship  and  toughened  him  in 
side  to  a  whalish  serenity.  In  short,  cruising  and  ship's 
pork  made  the  man  sick;  but  when  the  battle  was  met, 
his  constitution  suffered  a  revulsion,  and  he  not  only  ate 
ships,  but  kept  them  down,  and,  to  use  his  own  thought, 
"would  not  have  been  elsewhere  for  thousands." 

The  atmosphere  in  Mr.  Bill  Ballad's  hiding-place, 
coupled  with  the  fantastic  and  Gallic  manner  in  which 
the  hiding-place  danced  about,  brought  that  young 
gentleman  to  inactive  extremities,  yet  he  was  content  to 
be  where  he  was;  and  when,  in  the  midst  of  a  trance- 
like  nap,  an  immense  rat  ran  across  his  face,  the  excite 
ment,  as  with  Nelson  at  sight  of  the  enemy,  took  away 
his  qualms  and  rendered  him  once  more  fit  to  reflect 
and  to  endure. 

"I  suppose,"  he  reflected,  "that  I  must  stick  to  this 
sty  for  at  least  two  days,  so  that  there  may  be  no  possi 
bility  of  them  putting  me  ashore.  Then  I  shall  throw 
open  the  hatch,  discover  myself  to  the  captain,  and  be 

201 


put  at  some  disagreeable  sea  work,  climbing  masts  per 
haps,"  and  he  shivered. 

His  chief  reflections,  however,  in  that  dark,  bilgy  and 
plunging  place  were  upon  the  duration  of  time,  the  in 
stability  of  human  affairs,  and  the  disregard  of  hard 
boards  for  the  sensitive  joints  of  the  human  frame.  In 
the  extremes  of  aching  discomfort  the  events  of  the  pre 
ceding  day  receded  from  his  complaining  mind.  The 
terrible  collapse  of  Mr.  Heigh  upon  receiving  the  bullet, 
the  breathless  flight  from  the  scene  of  the  duel,  and  the 
lovely  face  of  Miss  Gremley,  were  pictures  which  came 
to  visit  him  with  less  and  less  frequency.  Eventually 
he  thought  about  nothing  but  the  disadvantages  of 
bones  to  the  human  frame,  and  wished  himself  a  jelly 
fish.  But  for  all  his  uninuredness  to  hard  surfaces, 
sleep  visited  him  in  dreamy  snatches;  once  he  awoke 
with  a  start  and  a  half  consciousness  that  for  a  moment 
the  storm  had  howled  down  the  hatchway  and  roared 
in  his  ears.  Indeed,  he  fancied  during  those  first  star 
tled,  waking  seconds  that  some  one  had  opened  the 
hatch,  drawn  it  to,  and  descended  into  his  hiding-place. 
But  with  complete  wakefulness  he  attributed  his  im 
pression  to  the  machinations  of  a  sea-rat.  He  never 
knew  how  many  hours  had  passed  of  his  incarceration 
when,  being  set  upon  by  hunger  and  curiosity,  he  lighted 
his  lantern,  and  discovered  that  the  watch  which 
Jemmy  had  loaned  him  had  run  down. 

202 


OF  MR.   BILL  BALLAD 

" Damn! "  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad.  But  he  began  to  eat 
of  his  provisions  (in  particular  of  the  ham)  with  a  great 
show  of  appetite.  In  the  midst  of  a  large  and  tooth 
some  mouthful  he  had  suddenly  the  horrible  sensation 
of  one  who,  fancying  himself  alone,  becomes  aware 
that  he  is  being  watched.  His  scalp  seemed  to  bristle, 
and  he  stopped  chewing  the  better  to  listen. 

"I  thought,"  thought  he,  "that  I  heard  some  one 
breathe."  He  listened  hard.  But  the  sound  was  not 
repeated.  He  heard  only  the  thumping  of  his  own 
heart,  the  faint  and  distant  echoes  of  the  gale,  and  the 
creaking  of  the  ship.  "  I  wonder,"  he  thought,  "  if  it  is 
possible  for  a  rat  to  breathe  audibly.  I  fancy  not. 
But  possibly  an  old  grandfather  rat" — he  became  face 
tious,  with  fear  going — "who  was  asthmatic  or  suffer 
ing  from  a  cold  in  the  head  " — and,  just  as  he  was  about 
to  resume  the  business  of  untrammelled  eating,  there 
sounded  from  the  deep  dark  that  lurked  upon  the  out 
skirts  of  the  ring  of  light  cast  by  his  lantern  a  husky 
voice. 

Mr.  Bill  Ballad  never  knew  the  precise  words  uttered 
by  the  husky  voice.  Fear  petrified  him,  but  not,  un 
fortunately,  in  time  to  prevent  his  overturning  the 
lantern,  which  rolled  off,  clashing  into  the  sudden  and 
absolute  darkness  caused  by  its  own  extinction. 

Mr.  Bill  Ballad,  trembling  in  every  limb,  gasped  like 
a  man  coming  to  the  surface  after  a  long  swim  under 

203 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

water.  Sweat  cold  as  ice  ran  dovrn  his  sides  .  .  .  and 
then  once  more  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  husky 
voice,  whjch  said  tremblingly,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir, 
but  I  forgot  to  bring  any  water,  and  I've  eaten  a  lot  of 
pickles,  and  I  think  I  shall  die  of  thirst." 

Mr.  Bill  Ballad  drew  a  long  staccato  sigh  of  relief. 
But  he  was  angry  at  the  voice  for  having  frightened 
him  so,  and  he  said  angrily: 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  at  first?" 

"  I  told  you  not  to  be  frightened  the  first  time  I  spoke," 
said  the  voice. 

"Frightened!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ballad,  beginning  to 
tremble  again  in  spite  of  the  gentle  and  plaintive  quality 
of  the  husky  voice.  "I  frightened;  why,  man,  I'm 
armed  to  the  teeth." 

"S — so — am — I,"  came  back  in  a  stuttering  kind  of 
a  whine.  "But  why  did  you  overturn  the  lantern  ?" 

"As  a  precaution,"  said  Mr.  Ballad  boldly,  for  he 
felt  himself  greatly  heartened  by  the  timidity  now  evi 
dent  in  the  voice.  "But  come  out  of  there — I  won't 
hurt  you,  and  you  shall  have  a  drink — if,"  he  put  in 
with  courtesy,  "you  don't  mind  drinking  out  of  the 
same  jug." 

Then  was  heard  a  bungling  movement  in  the  dark, 
followed  by  a  sharp  exclamation  of  pain. 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  all  pat 
ronage. 

204 


OF  MR.  BILL  BALLAD 

"My  shin,"  said  the  voice,  and  exclaimed  instantly 
again. 

"Well? "said  Mr.  Ballad. 

"My  other  shin,"  said  the  voice. 

"  Deuced  clumsy,  aren't  you,"  said  Mr.  Ballad.  "  Oh, 
there  you  are."  His  outstretched  hand  came  in  con 
tact  with  the  top  of  a  hatted  [head.  "  Here's  the  jug — 
for  goodness'  sake  don't  spill  it." 

The  stranger  drank  greedily  with  a  gluggling  ncfee. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  "you  stay  here — and  keep 
saying  where  you  are,  so  that  I  will  know  where  I  am, 
while  I  crawl  about  and  look  for  that  damned  lantern. 
...  I  think  I  know  where  it  rolled." 

Mr.  Ballad  began  to  crawl  cautiously  in  the  direction 
in  which  he  imagined  the  lantern  to  have  rolled,  while 
every  now  and  then,  to  give  him  the  location,  the  stran 
ger  said  loudly,  "Here  I  am."  Between  two  of  these 
pieces  of  data  Mr.  Ballad  began  to  swear. 

"  What's  the  matter  now  ? "  said  the  stranger. 

"My  shin!"  said  Mr.  Ballad  furiously. 

"  Here  I  am ! "  said  the  stranger. 

Presently  Mr.  Ballad  swore  again. 

"Well?"  said  the  stranger. 

"My  other  shin,"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  and,  to  do  him 
credit,  though  he  began  testily,  he  finished  laugh 
ing. 

"Deuced  clumsy,  aren't  you,"  said  the  stranger,  ren- 
205 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

dered  bold  by  Mr.  Ballad's  boyish  laugh.  .  .  .  "  Here  I 
am."  .  .  . 

The  next  silence  was  terminated  by  an  awful  crash 
and  a  grunt  of  real  pain. 

"Here  I  am,"  said  the  stranger. 

"Oh,  you  are,  are  you,"  said  Mr.  Ballad  angrily,  but 
with  a  ginger  quality  of  voice.  "Well,  I've  crawled  off 
the  edge  of  something,  and  here  I  am." 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

"I  should  think  I  was  hurt.     It's  my  knee  .  .  . 
where  are  you  ?    I'm  coming  back — damn  the  lantern 
— sing  out,  can't  you." 

"  Here  I  am,"  said  the  stranger.  .  .  . 

" it,"  cried  Mr.  Ballad  suddenly. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"My  other  knee,"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 

"Here  I  am,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  I  should  say  you  were,"  said  Mr.  Ballad  furiously, 
"and  heartily  amused,  I  daresay.  I've  a  good  mind  to 
punch  your  head — ouch — where  are  you?"  No  an 
swer. 

' '  Where  are  you  ?  "     No  answer. 

"I  won't  punch  your  head,  you  little  fool." 

The  stranger  raised  his  voice.  "Here  I  am,"  said 
he. 

"Have  you  a  watch?"  asked  Mr.  Bill  Ballad. 

"  No,"  said  the  stranger. 

206 


OF  MR.   BILL  BALLAD 

"Then  it  doesn't  matter  about  the  lantern,"  said 
Mr.  Ballad,  "because  my  watch  has  run  down,  and  I 
do  not  feel  any  particular  curiosity  to  be  gratified  by  a 
look  at  you.  But  you  may  as  well  tell  me  why  you  are 
here." 

"Because  I  had  to  run  away  from  home,"  said  the 
stranger. 

"You  sound  reasonably  well  bred,"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 
"So  I  daresay  it  is  a  question  of  bills  which  you  are 
unable  to  pay.  But  I  don't  really  care  to  know.  What 
have  you  brought  in  the  way  of  provisions  ?  " 

"Pickles,  macaroons,  jam,  and  a  little  candy,"  said 
the  stranger. 

"You  never  should  have  left  your  mother,"  said  Mr. 
Bill  Ballad.  "You  are  the  most  ignorant  youth  with 
whom  I  have  ever  come  in  contact." 

"You  only  came  in  contact  with  the  top  of  my  hat," 
said  the  stranger. 

"I  came  in  contact  with  every  other  damn  thing  in 
this  ship,"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  and  he  tried  to  caress  all 
his  bruises  at  once. 

"  I  may  be  ignorant,"  said  the  stranger,  "  but  I  don't 
swear.  I  wonder  where  we  are. " 

"I  forget  the  name  of  the  place,"  said  Mr.  Ballad, 
"but  if  you  mean  where  the  Mallow  is,  why,  I  suppose, 
she's  well  off  shore.  She  must  have  sailed  hoir* 
ago." 

207 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

"It's  pretty  rough,  isn't  it?"  said  the  stranger. 
"Are  you  a  good  sailor?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  "in  fact,  some  time  ago  I 
threatened  to  be  very  sick,  but  a  rat  ran  over  my  face 
and  startled  me  back  into  a  pink  glow  of  health.  Then 
you  appeared,  and  I  must  admit  that  your  piquant  con 
versation  and  absurd  youthfulness  have  so  shaken  me 
with  internal  laughter  that  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never 
experience  another  qualm.  What  do  you  expect  to 
have  happen  to  you  when  we  are  discovered  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  said  the  stranger;  "any 
thing  to  get  away.  But  why  are  you  here  ?  " 

Mr.  Bill  Ballad  reflected  for  a  moment,  but  he  loved 
talk  for  its  own  sake,  had  never  suffered  very  acutely 
from  discretion,  and  wished  to  play  the  man  in  the  im 
agination  of  his  young  and  callow  acquaintance;  there 
fore  he  said:  "  I  will  tell  you." 

"Do,"  said  the  stranger. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  Miss  Gremley,"  said  Mr. 
Bill  Ballad. 

The  stranger  was  silent  for  some  moments.  "A 
little  pock-marked  thing?"  he  said  finally. 

"Pock-marked  yourself,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bill  Ballad. 
"She's  the  most  exquisite  girl  that  God  ever  made,  and 
considering  the  practice  He  has  had — well,  never  mind. 
Her  parents  are  swine." 

The  stranger  laughed.     "In  what  way  ?"  said  he. 
208 


OF  MR.   BILL  BALLAD 

"In  all  ways,"  said  Mr.  Ballad.  "They  arranged, 
for  instance,  to  marry  this  lovely  child  to  an  old,  ugly, 

lean,  underbred,  rich,  black-hearted ,  by  the  name 

of  Heigh.     It  was  simply  a  sale.     The  ewe  lamb  for  the 
butcher — a  fat  commission  for  the  parents." 

"But  if  they  were  swine,"  said  the  stranger,  "how 
could  the  child  be  a  ewe  lamb  ?" 

Mr.  Bill  Ballad  waved  his  hand  in  the  dark  and  did 
not  deign  to  reply. 

"The  wedding,"  he  said,  "was  to  have  been  to-day. 
That  is,  if  to-day  is  to-day,  and  not  already  to-morrow, 
which  is  hard  to  establish  in  the  dark.  Well,  a  certain 
young  gentleman  of  romantical  nature  who  was  not 
acquainted  with  Miss  Gremley,  but  who  worships  inno 
cence  and  beauty,  was  so  incensed  by  the  affair  when  it 
came  to  his  ears  that  he  sought  out  this  Heigh  and 
pulled  his  nose  for  him." 

"Had  the  young  gentleman  been  drinking?"  asked 
the  stranger. 

"He  had,"  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad. 

"And  what  happened?" 

"They  fought  back  of  the  green  church — and  Heigh 
fell." 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  stranger,  "dead?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad  with  a  shudder. 
"He  fell  horribly,  and  I  ran  away." 

"Then  it  was  you?" 

209 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

"It  was,"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 

"You  risked  your  life  for  the  happiness  of  a  young 
woman  whom  you  only  knew  by  sight  ?" 

"I  had  been  drinking,"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 

"I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  the  stranger  strongly; 
"you  are  trying  to  make  light  of  a  wonderful  and  beau 
tiful  piece  of  chivalry." 

"Call  it  that  if  you  like,"  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad. 

"I  would  like  to  shake  your  hand,"  said  the  stranger. 
Mr.  Bill  Ballad  (himself  somewhat  moved  by  the  recol 
lection  of  his  own  wonderful  and  beautiful,  if  spiritu 
ous,  chivalry)  thrust  forth  a  hand  in  the  dark,  and  as 
suddenly  drew  it  back. 

"What  is  that?"  he  said. 

"My  petticoat,"  said  the  stranger. 

"Who  are  you?"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 

"I  am  Miss  Gremley — where  are  you  going?" 

"After  the  lantern,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ballad.  It 
took  him  half  an  hour  of  painful  crawling,  during  which 
he  did  not  swear  once,  to  find  it.  He  crawled  back  in 
triumph,  and  lighted  it.  Then  he  held  it  aloft. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,"  he  said.  He  looked  long  into 
a  pair  of  round,  gray,  glimmering  eyes. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  in  a  faltering  voice,  "for  what 
I  said  about  your  parents." 

"I  forgive  you,"  said  Miss  Gremley. 

"Forgive  me  for  having  sworn  so  abominably." 
210 


OF  MR.  BILL  BALLAD 

"I  forgive  you." 

"Forgive  me  for  boasting  about  the — the  Heigh 
business." 

"I  forgive  you — and  I  shall  not  forget." 

During  all  this  time  he  had  continued  to  hold  the  lan 
tern  aloft  the  better  to  look  into  the  gray  eyes.  His 
arm  now  began  to  tremble  violently  with  the  tension  on 
it,  and  he  put  down  the  lantern. 

"You  are  very  beautiful,"  he  said. 

"You  also  are  pleasant  to  look  at,"  said  Miss 
Gremley. 

"My  life  has  not  been  handsome,"  said  Mr.  Ballad 
with  emotion. 

"That,"  said  Miss  Gremley,  "I  shall  never  believe." 

"Did  you  run  away  because  of — of  Heigh?" 

"Yes." 

"Poor  child,"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 

"I  am  rich  in  my  defender,"  said  Miss  Gremley. 

"Miss  Gremley,"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  "I  am  far  from 
wishing  to  take  an  advantage  of  you,  but  the  bulkhead 
against  which  you  are  leaning  is,  as  I  know  by  dolorous 
experience,  harder  than  jasper.  If  you  would  care  to 
regard  my  arm  as  a  sort  of  buffer,  and  not  as  a  part  of 
the  human  male  anatomy,  I  could  contrive  to  make  you 
a  little  more  comfortable." 

She  leaned  forward  without  hesitation  and  back 
against  his  encircling  arm. 

211 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

And  then,  having  blown  out  the  lantern  to  save  the 
oil,  they  sat  in  the  dark,  until  Mr.  Bill  Ballad's  arm  had 
lost  all  sensation,  save  that  of  bliss,  and  a  great  craving 
for  food  had  settled  in  them  both.  Then  they  relit  the 
lantern  and  ate  heartily  and  with  laughter. 

"It  seems  warmer,"  said  Miss  Gremley;  "we  must 
have  made  considerable  s — southing." 

"It  is  smoother  also,"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 

"How  long  do  you  suppose  we  have  been  in  here?" 

"Not  more  than  ten  minutes,"  said  Mr.  Ballad  politely. 

"I  don't  know  why  it  should,"  said  Miss  Gremley, 
"but  my  head  aches  and  I  feel  faint." 

"The  air  in  here  must  be  pretty  well  used  up  by  now," 
said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad.  "But  I  think  we  would  best  stick 
things  out  a  little  longer.  If  we've  been  beating  to 
windward  all  this — I  mean  the  ten  minutes  we  have 
been  in  here — why,  we  cannot  have  got  far,  and  I  for 
one  don't  wish  to  be  put  ashore." 

"What  shall  you  do  when  we  get  to  Jamaica?" 

"I  shall  try  very  hard  to  play  the  man  and  to  look 
after  you,"  said  Mr.  Ballad.  A  pressure  of  the  hand, 
unexpected  and  delicious,  rewarded  him,  and  uncon 
sciously  his  right  arm,  which  Miss  Gremley  had  been 
told  to  regard  as  an  inanimate  buffer  against  hard 
woodwork,  tightened. 

"Does  your  head  ache  very  much  ?"  said  Mr.  Ballad, 
tenderly. 

212 


OF  MR.   BILL  BALLAD 

"Very,"  said  Miss  Gremley. 

He  shifted  his  right  arm  a  little,  and  drew  her  close 
to  him.  His  free  hand  sought  her  right  cheek,  and, 
very  gently,  he  drew  the  aching  little  head  down  on  his 
shoulder.  He  tipped  his  own  head  to  the  right  so  that 
his  cheek  rested  against  hers. 

"Jus'  a  few  more  buffers,"  he  said  in  a  breaking 
voice.  "Are  you  more  comf'able?"  She  did  not 
answer.  She  hung  upon  him  limply.  He  laid  his 
hand  over  her  heart,  but  could  not  discern  a  single 
beat.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Bill  Ballad  never  knew  how  he  found  the  hatch 
way  of  their  prison  so  easily  and  flung  it  open.  It  was 
a  work  of  seconds  only.  Fresh  air  and  the  light  of  day 
rushed  in,  and  Miss  Gremley  revived  all  at  once,  just 
as  primroses  open  in  the  cool  of  evening. 

"Come,"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  and  he  gave  her  his  two 
hands  to  help  her  rise,  "and  we  will  go  on  deck  .  .  . 
and  do  not  forget  that  I  shall  take  care  of  you.  .  .  . 
Kiss  me,  My  Heart,  and  put  heart  into  me.  ..." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and,  just  as  he  made  sure 
that  she  was  only  going  to  let  him  kiss  her  cheek,  she 
smiled  and  put  up  her  mouth  like  a  little  child. 

"My  love — my  darling — my  heart — my  treasure — 
my  comfort — my  sweetheart — my —  '  began  Mr.  Bal 
lad  in  a  choking  voice,  but  with  the  manful  intention  of 
saying  all  the  pretty  names  he  knew. 

213 


THE  STOWING  AWAY 

"Better  come  up,"  came  a  loud  laughing  voice 
down  the  hatchway. 

The  grinning  and  rosy  face  of  Jemmy  was  seen  to 
be  looking  down  upon  the  lovers.  They  went  on 
deck. 

Mr.  Bill  Ballad  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  about 
him.  Then  he  rubbed  them  again. 

During  his  incarceration  the  vessel  had  not  moved, 
and  he  beheld,  blinking,  the  familiar  wharves  of  his 
natal  town.  The  wind  had  subsided,  and  the  after 
noon,  blue  and  sweet,  shimmered  exquisitely. 

Jemmy  leaned  against  the  foremast  and  roared  with 
laughter.  "The  game's  up!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bill  Bal 
lad,  and,  in  spite  of  him,  his  voice  shook. 

"We  don't  seem  to  have  made  as  much  southing  as  I 
had  supposed,"  said  Miss  Gremley. 

"Jemmy,"  said  Mr.  Ballad,  "why  is  this  ship  here 
and  where  is  her  crew?" 

"This  ship,"  said  Jemmy,  "has  been  set  aside  by  the 
authorities  to  be  coated  with  tar  and  burned  as  a  naval 
spectacle  to  celebrate  the  fifth  anniversary  of  the  found 
ing  of  the  Fire  Hose  Company.  The  Mallow  sailed 
with  the  tide." 

"Did  you  know  that  I  was  stowing  away  on  the 
wrong  ship?"  asked  Mr.  Ballad  sternly. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Jemmy,  "  for  I  knew  that  if  you  got 
to  Jamaica  I  would  never  see  my  watch  again.  .  .  . 

214 


OF  MR.   BILL  BALLAD 

Miss  Gremley,  shall  we  go  ashore  ?  You  have  nothing 
to  fear." 

"How  about  me?"  said  Mr.  Ballad. 

Jemmy  pulled  as  long  a  face  as  he  could. 

"Eater  of  men,  manslayer,  criminal,  jail-bird,"  he 
said  sternly,  "the  pistols  were  loaded  only  with  powder. 
It  has  also  transpired  that  one  of  the  legs  upon  which 
your  late  adversary  stood  to  face  you  was  of  Spanish 
cork,  fastened  to  the  heroic  stump  of  its  flesh-and-blood 
predecessor  by  an  exquisite  arrangement  of  straps, 
pads  and  buckles.  On  receiving  your  fire,  the  hero 
seems  to  have  flinched  to  such  an  extent  that  one  of  the 
straps  broke.  Hence  the  dreadful  suddenness  with 
which  he  came  to  the  ground— 

"But,"  cried  Mr.  Ballad,  delightfully  agitated,  "why 
then  did  he  open  and  shut  his  mouth  as  if  dying,  and 
make  such  dreadful  noises?" 

"It  seems,"  said  Jemmy,  "that  his  false,  fluting  and 
perjured  teeth  were  also  dislodged,  and  by  him  swal 
lowed.  They  stuck  in  his  throat  and  his  life  was  de 
spaired  of  until  early  this  morning,  when  Dr.  Scalpel, 
aided  by  Dr.  Setit  and  a  buttonhook,  succeeded  in  fish 
ing  them  up.  They  are  not  injured  in  the  least.  .  .  . 
My  dear  boy,  the  whole  town  is  laughing,  Mr.  Heigh 
has  rushed  from  among  us,  his  fingers  in  his  ears,  like 
Christian  in  '  Pilgrim's  Progress/  and  as  for  you,  there 
is  not  a  single  copy  of  your  book  to  be  had  for  love  or 

215 


MR.  BILL  BALLAD 

money.  The  printers  are  sweating  out  a  new  edition 
of  five  thousand  copies." 

"The  Age  of  Folly,"  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad. 

"As  for  you,  Miss  Gremley,"  said  Jemmy,  "I  per 
ceive  that  our  young  friend  has  told  you  those  things 
which  are  best  to  hear,  and  as  for  me,  I  shall  declare  a 
holiday  and  get  drunk."  They  helped  Miss  Gremley 
into  the  skiff,  and  Jemmy  set  himself  leisurely  to  the 
rowing. 

As  the  skiff  neared  the  shore,  it  was  seen  that  Mr. 
Caruthers'  long  wharf  was  densely  packed  with  people. 
From  among  them  cheers,  laughter  and  hats  began  to 
rise.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  by  any  chance  feel  sheepish?"  said  Miss 
Gremley. 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Mr.  Bill  Ballad;  "it  has  al 
ways  been  my  heartfelt  ambition  to  be  a  great  man." 


216 


VIII 
THE   EXPLORERS 


THE   EXPLORERS 
I 

In  my  early  youth  I  had  vacillated  between  so  many 
trades  and  professions  that  I  grew  up  jack  of  all.  But, 
strictly  speaking,  I  became  a  discontented  graduate  of 
the  Physicians  and  Surgeons,  and  began  to  establish  a 
practice  in  East  Eighteenth  Street.  Materially  I  pros 
pered  from  the  first,  but  mentally  I  was  in  a  turmoil  of 
other  ambitions  and  desires.  It  was  my  tragedy  to  be 
lieve  that  I  was  a  born  forester,  landscape-gardener 
sailor  or  soldier,  and  had  elected  to  live  in  a  city,  like  a 
rat  in  a  hole,  and  minister  to  the  sick.  The  longer  I 
practised,  the  more  sharply  did  I  feel  myself  caught  be 
tween  the  horns  of  dilemma;  I  had  neither  the  money 
to  turn  back  and  recast  my  lines  nor  the  will  to  go 
ahead  and  land  my  fishes.  Then,  as  is  usual  with  di 
lemmas,  fate  stepped  in,  or,  rather,  dropped  at  my  door 
William  Dane,  the  Arctic  navigator  and  explorer,  over 
come  by  the  June  heat. 

Even  before  he  had  come  to  his  senses,  I  took  to  the 
man,  and  was  engulfed  by  his  personality.  He  had  a 

219 


THE  EXPLORERS 

head  and  face  and  mane  like  the  stone  lion  of  Lucerne, 
imperturbable  and  vast;  hard,  smooth,  colossal  limbs; 
a  chest  like  a  bay-window,  and  hands  at  once  the  larg 
est  and  most  beautiful  that  I  have  ever  seen;  a  man 
formidable  in  thought  and  action.  "This,"  said  I  to 
Miss  Ma,  my  assistant,  "is  somebody." 

"This  is  who  it  is,"  she  said,  and  showed  me  on  the 
first  page  of  the  morning  paper,  which  I  had  not  had  the 
inclination  to  read,  two  pictures — a  ship  and  a  man. 

While  I  continued  to  apply  restoratives,  Miss  Ma 
gave  me  brief  extracts  from  the  article  below  the  pict 
ures,  which  was  captioned: 

"Captain  Dane  morally  certain  to  find  the  North  Pole" 

"Was  going  to  sail  to-day,"  she  said;  "put  it  off  be 
cause  doctor  gave  out — fifteenth  Arctic  voyage — sixty 
years  old — doesn't  look  forty,  does  he  ?  " 

"Why  did  the  doctor  give  out?"  I  asked. 

"Panic,"  said  Miss  Ma,  and  she  went  on:  "Many 
answers  to  advertisements  for  doctor — applicants  un 
suitable  on  various  scores — Captain  Dane  says  he  will 
sail  without  a  doctor  rather  than  with  a  narrow-chested 
one — says  that  nine-tenths  of  good  Arctic  work  has  been 
done  by  blond  men  with  gray  eyes." 

Here  Captain  Dane  himself  interrupted,  his  transi 
tion  from  insensibility  to  alert  mental  equipoise  being 
nearly  instantaneous. 

220 


THE   EXPLORERS 

"Damn  the  heat,  anyway!" 

"I  can't  agree  with  you,"  said  I,  "since  it  has  brought 
me  so  distinguished  a  patient/' 

"I  hope  to  be  more  so,"  said  he;  "will  you  call  me 
a  cab  ?  I  won't  risk  the  sun  again." 

"Please  call  a  cab,  Miss  Ma." 

"What  is  your  fee,  sir?"  asked  Captain  Dane. 

"Five  dollars,"  said  I,  "but  I  would  like  to  contrib 
ute  that  much  to  your  voyage.  We  have  been  reading 
you  up  in  the  paper,  while  you  were  coming  to." 

"I  won't  prevent  your  contributing,"  said  he,  "if  you 
want  to;  but  five  dollars  is  a  great  deal  of  money. 
Money  is  a  devilish  hard  thing  to  collect." 

"By  the  way,"  I  said,  "the  paper  says  that  you  have 
advertised  for  a  doctor." 

"I  have,"  said  he,  "but  the  right  one  doesn't  turn 
up." 

A  general  restlessness  and  dissatisfaction  with  life, 
particularly  at  the  advent  of  the  hot  months,  impelled 
me  to  say:  "Would  I  do?" 

"You  are  built  right,"  he  said;  "you  have  light  hair 
and  gray  eyes,  and  I  see  by  your  diploma  that  you  are 
a  graduate  of  the  P.  and  S.;  but  you  aren't  sure  that 
you  want  to  go." 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  you  didn't  answer  the  advertisement." 

"I  didn't  see  it." 

221 


THE  EXPLORERS 

"If  you  had  been  keen  to  go,"  said  he,  "you  wouldn't 
have  missed  it." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  wasn't  keen  to  go,  that's  the 
truth.  But  I  am  now." 

"Why?  "said  he. 

"You've  made  me,"  I  said;  "you  make  me  more  so 
every  time  you  speak.  I'd  like  to  serve  under  you." 

"Doctor's  billet,"  said  he,  "is  the  hardest  of  all. 
Even  I  can  lie  up  if  I  fall  sick,  but  the  doctor  can't.  I 
don't  even  allow  my  doctors  to  die  when  they  want  to. 
Up  there,"  he  said,  thumbing  northward,  "men  go 
down  on  their  knees  and  ask  to  be  allowed  to  die.  Some 
of  them  I  have  to  let  die,  but  never  the  doctor.  Do  you 
still  want  to  go?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  stoutly. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I'll  drive  around  to  headquarters, 
and  if  nobody  better  has  showed  up,  I'll  send  for  you." 

"Hold  on,"  I  said,  "I'm  not  so  low-spirited  as  that. 
You  can  take  me  or  leave  me,  but  I  don't  dangle  on  any 
man's  waiting-list." 

"That's  better,"  said  he,  and  his  voice,  hitherto  very 
matter-of-fact,  became  abundantly  hearty.  "You'll 
do." 

Then  he  made  me  sit  down  and  write  a  long  list  of 
things  to  get  and  where  to  get  them. 

"Take  a  cab,"  he  said,  "and  hustle." 

"When  do  we  sail  ?"  said  I. 
222 


THE  EXPLORERS 

"The  minute  you're  aboard." 

"Where's  the  ship?" 

"Off  Thirty-third  Street  in  the  North  River.  I  call 
her  The  Needle  because  she  points  toward  the  pole. 
Have  you  many  good-bys,  much  to  arrange?" 

"No,"  said  I,  "I'll  turn  my  practice  over  to  the  doc 
tor  across  the  hall,  give  Miss  Ma  a  month's  wages;  and 
that's  about  all." 

"  Have  you  no  relatives — no  entanglements  ?  " 

"None  of  the  first,"  said  I,  "that  matter — and  none 
of  the  last,  not  even  a  professional  one." 

"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,"  said  Captain  Dane, 
"for  they  have  strong  bodies  and  leave  no  trail." 

Three  hours  later  we  were  steaming  down  the  North 
River  through  the  blistering  June  heat.  Every  flag  on 
the  river  was  dipped  to  us,  and  all  the  whistles  were 
blown. 

II 

From  the  first  I  was  more  interested  in  Captain  Dane 
than  in  Arctic  phenomena;  just  as,  in  my  profession, 
I  was  ever  more  alive  to  the  bearing  of  the  sick  than  to 
their  diseases.  To  which  habit,  more  than  to  any  skill 
in  medicine,  or  determination  to  succeed,  I  attribute  the 
ease  which  I  had  had  in  attracting  patients  to  my  prac 
tice.  But,  furthermore,  the  North  is  too  overwhelming 
and  magical  to  be  interesting:  the  gorgeous  blazing  of 

223 


THE  EXPLORERS 

the  sun  through  the  ice,  the  aurora  flaming  in  the  heav 
ens  at  night,  the  very  shape  of  the  bergs,  running  to 
every  grotesque  of  form  and  every  shade  of  astonishing 
color,  even  the  atmosphere  putting  to  scorn  the  clarity 
of  crystals  and  the  sparkle  of  diamonds,  are  too  aston 
ishing  and  remote  to  excite  in  a  man  any  but  his  dumber 
faculties,  whose  voices  are  exclamations.  No  man  is 
truly  interested  except  when  his  mental  processes  are 
engaged  in  analysis — processes  which  the  Northscape 
in  its  mildest  moments  defies.  A  time  soon  came  when 
I  was  sick  to  death  of  those  wasted  glories,  obdurate 
against  the  most  fascinating  rainbow  or  the  most  em 
phatic  green  of  the  sea.  But  Captain  Dane  held  my 
keenest  interest  from  the  start. 

Prior  to  our  acquaintance  I  had  often  asked  myself — 
or  a  friend  for  the  sake  of  discussion — "Why  the  devil 
does  a  man  want  to  discover  the  North  Pole  ?  What's 
the  use  of  discovering  it?"  and  the  like — questions 
which,  properly  answered,  would,  I  thought,  bring  to 
bear  a  great  light  on  many  occult  workings  of  the  hu 
man  mind.  If  Dane  had  any  finite  reason  which 
bound  him  to  that  grail,  he  would  not  give  them  frankly, 
or  else  they  shifted  from  day  to  day.  "It's  been  such 
an  endless  sacrifice  of  lives,"  I  said  to  him  once,  and  he 
answered  whimsically:  "That's  just  it." 

"Let  us,"  said  he,  "for  the  sake  of  argument,  call  the 
pole  hunt  a  nonsensical  quest,  to  which  are  sacrificed 

224 


THE  EXPLORERS 

many  lives  that  might  in  other  walks  of  life  be  valuable. 
Well,  it's  up  to  some  one  to  stop  the  drain."  Here  he 
named  a  mighty  list  of  explorers  who  had  lost  their 
lives  in  the  Arctic.  "Many  of  them,"  he  said,  "were 
strong  and  talented  men,  devoted  thinkers,  and  brave 
beyond  compare.  Until  the  pole  is  found  there  will 
continue  to  be  lost  to  civilization  a  constant  trickling  of 
the  most  elect  citizens.  Wouldn't  it  be  service  enough 
to  put  a  stop  to  such  a  waste  as  that — a  waste  that  hu 
manity  cannot  afford  and  ought  not  to  endure  ? " 

"It  would  turn  the  course  of  the  adventurous  south," 
said  I. 

"It  would,"  said  he,  "toward  the  other  pole.  When 
that,  too,  has  been  discovered  there  will  be  an  end  of 
the  nonsense." 

"You  don't  think  it  nonsense  ?"  said  I. 

"As  an  act,  yes,"  he  said;  "as  an  accomplishment, 
no.  The  man  who  sets  his  country's  flag  on  the  pole 
will  save,  or  rather  divert  into  more  useful  channels, 
many  splendid  lives  that  come  after  his." 

But  on  other  occasions  his  arguments  were  all  at 
variance  with  this. 

"Is  it  for  the  glory  of  finding  it,"  I  asked  him,  "or 
for  the  glory  of  being  known  to  have  found  it?" 

"I  shall  be  content  to  find  it,"  he  said,  "and  to  die 
then  and  there.  You  can  carry  out  the  proofs,  and 
reap  the  honors." 

225 


THE  EXPLORERS 

"But,"  said  I,  "dead  or  not, your  name  would  go 
down  to  the  remotest  posterity  in  big  type.  Doesn't 
that  thought  influence  you  ?" 

"I  think  not,"  he  said,  "but  I  will  think  it  over." 

The  log-book  of  The  Needle  gives  all  the  longitudes 
and  latitudes,  and  scientific  observations  and  data,  of 
our  voyage.  These  things  are  not  important  to  my 
narrative.  Suffice  that  we  passed  the  winter,  the  cold 
est,  bleakest,  blackest  winter,  farther  north  than  it  had 
ever  been  passed  before,  and  in  the  spring  made  our 
dash  for  the  pole.  The  winter  brought  out  great  quali 
ties  in  Dane — an  overmastering  humor  and  good-hu 
mor,  a  great  gentleness  to  those  who  were  impatient 
and  sick,  an  almost  god-like  tenderness  over  those  that 
died.  He  was  like  a  great  statue  in  the  making,  when 
each  blow  of  the  sculptor's  hammer,  instead  of  dam 
aging  the  marble,  brings  out  new  strengths  and  beau 
ties.  Even  at  that  time,  before  our  hardships  had 
fairly  begun,  we  looked  on  our  Captain  as  on  one  who 
had  brought  us  out  rather  than  on  one  who  was  leading 
us  in.  The  day  for  starting  came,  and  Dane  spoke  to 
those  who  were  to  go  and  those  who  were  to  stay. 

"Men,"  he  said,  "it  is  as  hard  to  stay  as  to  go. 
Therefore  I  have  divided  you  equally,  as  boys  choose 
sides  for  a  game.  It  is  important  that  brave,  patient 
men  go  with  me,  and  it  is  important  that  brave,  patient 
men  remain.  I  wish  I  could  take  only  those  that  want 

226 


THE  EXPLORERS 

to  go  and  leave  only  those  that  want  to  stay.  But  you 
all  want  to  go.  So  I  have  had  to  pick  and  choose  for 
myself.  I  shall  think  of  those  that  stay  as  of  a  rock  that 
will  wait  for  me  to  come.  That's  the  important  thing, 
to  find  you  waiting  when  we  come  back.  You  must 
not  let  yourselves  get  sick;  and  you  must  not  let  your 
selves  think  too  much  about  home;  and  you  mustn't 
quarrel  when  you  begin  to  think  there  is  nothing  else 
to  do.  When  you  have  waited  for  us  as  long  as  you  can, 
then  wait  a  little  longer,  and  then  go.  God  bless  you  all." 

No  one  of  us  that  went  ever  again  saw  those  that  stayed . 
We  parted  forever,  with  laughter  and  shaking  of  hands. 

As  long  as  things  went  well,  strength  held,  and  food 
tasted  sweet,  our  dash  for  the  pole  had  in  it  something 
of  a  holiday  lark.  The  dogs,  strong,  savage,  and  eager, 
strained  at  the  sledges,  the  men  lent  their  backs  to  the 
passage  of  rough  places  with  deep-sea  unison.  Our 
supplies  were  calculated  to  a  nicety,  and  we  knew  it. 
We  believed  that  the  plateau  (it  was  neither  ice  nor 
snow,  but  a  mixture  of  the  two,  at  once  firm  and  crum 
bling  like  sand)  over  which  we  were  pressing  held  all  the 
way  to  the  pole.  And  at  each  resting-place,  when 
progress  would  be  calculated,  we  marvelled  and  re 
joiced  to  know  how  far  and  how  fast  we  had  gone. 
Strung  out  over  the  white  plains  in  marching  order,  we 
looked  like  some  grotesque  turn  in  a  circus — a  quantity 
of  bears  walking  on  their  hind  legs,  behaving  exactly 

227 


THE  EXPLORERS 

like  men,  and  driving  the  trains  of  dogs.  It  was  Dane's 
scheme  that  each  man  should  have  his  turn  in  leading 
the  procession;  thus  one  day  bringing  responsibility  to 
one  man,  the  next  to  another.  Great  rivalry  rose 
among  us  as  to  who  should  have  the  credit  of  leading  the 
longest  march.  As  we  neared  the  pole,  excitement  and 
jubilation  rose  among  us.  We  had  but  fifty  miles  to  go; 
there  had  not  yet  been  any  serious  hitch.  The  far 
north  had  shown  us  whatever  favors  it  had  to  show. 
We  vied  in  health  with  our  dogs.  And  then — whether 
it  came  from  Billy  Smith's  furs,  bought  during  the  win 
ter  from  an  Eskimo,  or  where  it  came  from  I  do  not 
know — there  leapt  among  us  a  germ  of  smallpox.  I 
only  know  that  the  disease  broke  out  with  awful  sav- 
ageness,  that  we  went  into  permanent  camp  at  the  very 
gates  of  the  pole,  and  began  to  die.  Billy  Smith  was 
the  first  to  go.  Captain  Dane  knelt  beside  him  for 
seven  hours,  exhorting  him  to  stay  and  do  his  duty. 
But  the  flesh  was  weak  with  the  sickness,  and  weepingly 
suffered  the  spirit  to  depart.  Captain  Dane's  face  was 
furrowed  with  ice  where  the  tears  had  run  down. 


Ill 


Captain  Dane  looked  me  steadily  in  the  eyes  across 
a  new-made  grave. 

"  Where  are  my  brave,  patient  men  ?  "  said  he. 

228 


THE  EXPLORERS 

''They  have  gone,"  I  said,  bitterly,  "all  gone.  But 
God  knows  I  tried  to  save  them." 

"At  work  they  were  lions,"  said  he,  "in  obedience, 
lambs.  Not  one  of  them  cursed  me.  Think  of  that, 
all  you  who  deride  the  splendor  of  the  human  soul. 
They  came  to  the  gates  of  the  pole,  like  sheep  to  the 
slaughter.  I  brought  them.  They  said  I  was  their 
father,  and  they  came  with  me — Americans,  English 
men,  Germans — they  all  came  with  me;  and  they  died 
without  cursing — all  the  nations." 

It  was  horrible  to  hear  the  man  rave  on,  his  eyes 
bright  with  fever,  his  face  set  like  a  stone. 

"  You  must  lie  down,  Captain,  and  rest,"  I  said. 

"Will  the  fever  go  out  of  me  if  I  lie  down  and  rest?" 
said  he.  "My  God,  no!  Do  you  think  that  with  my 
mortal  sickness  on  me,  and  the  pole  just  over  there, 
that  I'm  going  to  lie  down  and  rest?  I  watched  them 
all  die.  When  they  were  taken  sick  I  made  them  lie 
down.  But  there  wasn't  one  of  them  but  would  have 
marched  and  fought  one  day  more  if  I'd  told  him  to. 
When  I  lie  down  to  rest,  the  pole  shall  be  under  me." 

I  pleaded  with  him  to  lie  down,  to  husband  his 
strength,  to  fight  with  the  fever.  I  swore  to  him  that 
I  would  bring  him  through.  He  laughed  in  my  face. 
And  what  could  I  do?  He  was  stronger  than  five  of 
me,  and  mad,  to  boot. 

"Go  back  to  The  Needle,"  he  said,  "and  tell  them 
229 


THE  EXPLORERS 

that  I  went  forward  alone,  and  discovered  the  pole. 
Will  you  go  back,  or  won't  you  ?  " 

I  do  not  wish  to  make  myself  out  a  hero.  If  wishing 
could  have  taken  me  back  to  The  Needle,  or  thousands 
of  miles  beyond,  back  I  would  have  gone.  But  to  make 
that  long  journey  alone,  to  drive  dogs,  in  which  I  had 
no  skill,  or  even  to  find  the  way,  I  knew  to  be  impos 
sible.  For  me  there  was  nothing  but  death — death  to 
go  back,  death  to  stay.  I  preferred,  not  cheerfully, 
but  still  decidedly,  and  all  things  considered,  to  take 
my  quietus  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  pole. 

"I  won't  go  back,"  I  said.  "Let's  find  this 

pole,  and  have  done  with  it." 

"Man  talk  that,"  said  Captain  Dane.  "It's  this 
way,  Johnny,  if  we  give  in  here,  these  men's  lives  will 
have  been  wantonly  sacrificed.  But  if  we  can  reach  the 
pole,  and  die  there,  then  they  won't  have  died  in  vain." 

"Who's  to  know?"  said  I. 

"The  cold,"  said  he,  "will  preserve  our  bodies  im 
maculately.  Some  day  they  will  be  found  at  the  pole, 
with  the  record  of  our  journey,  and  our  names,  and  the 
names  of  those  who  died  for  us.  Let's  along,  boy." 

Then  began  a  horrible  nightmare  that  lasted  seven 
days.  Captain  Dane,  all  broken  out  with  the  smallpox, 
and  delirious  with  fever,  trudged  over  the  plain,  laugh 
ing,  shouting,  moaning.  Wild  words  poured  from  his 
deluded  brain,  and  yet  the  idea  that  he  must  and  would 

230 


THE  EXPLORERS 

go  forward,  and  his  senses  for  direction  and  finding  the 
line,  by  observations  or  calculating  and  the  deviation 
of  the  needle  from  the  true  pole  to  the  magnetic,  never 
once  forsook  him.  I  think  that  all  that  was  mortal  of 
him  died  before  we  reached  the  end  of  our  journey,  and 
was  dragged  forward  by  his  immortal  soul. 

We  struck  at  length  into  a  region  that  bore  marks  of 
terrific  winds.  For  in  many  places  the  black  bed-rock 
was  naked  and  bare  of  ice  or  snow.  As  we  progressed, 
the  expanses  of  smooth,  naked  rock  prevailed  more  and 
more  in  the  scape,  until,  on  the  morning  of  the  eighth 
day,  all  traces  of  ice  and  snow  vanished.  Here  I  first 
began  to  be  sensible  of  difficulty,  not  altogether  the 
result  of  fatigued  muscles,  in  lifting  my  feet,  which 
increased  from  hour  to  hour.  Each  of  us  carried  a 
compass,  and  I  noticed  that  the  needle  in  mine  was  be 
ginning  to  act  in  a  queer,  uncertain  manner — like  a 
hound  that  finds  a  trail,  steadies  to  it  a  moment,  and 
then  loses  it.  Obviously,  we  were  about  to  arrive.  If 
I  took  any  mental  interest  in  the  fact,  it  was  a  feeling 
of  disappointment. 

Some  point  ahead  of  that  black  rocky  plain  over 
which  we  were  plodding,  with  feet  that  seemed  to  stick 
like  plasters  to  the  rock,  was  the  great  goal  of  explorers. 
There  was  nothing  to  mark  it.  It  might  be  on  a  rise  or 
in  a  depression.  Measurements  alone  could  mark  it 
for  us.  There  would  be  nothing  to  give  one  single  mo- 

231 


THE  EXPLORERS 

ment  of  ante-mortem  excitement  to  the  eye.  I  was 
wrong. 

We  climbed  painfully  up  a  little  ridge  of  rock,  per 
haps  a  dozen  feet  high.  On  the  further  slope  lay  seven 
corpses  wrapped  in  fur. 

"Here  we  are,  Johnny,"  said  Captain  Dane  sud 
denly.  There  was  a  complete  sanity  in  his  voice. 
And  he  fell  to  examining  the  corpses.  As  for  me,  I 
simply  sat  down  and  watched  him.  I  was  terribly  tired, 
and  did  not  want  to  die. 

"My  God!"  cried  the  captain,  "here's  an  old-timer. 
He  drew  a  slip  of  sheepskin  from  the  dead  man's  glove. 
"I  don't  make  out  the  name,"  he  went  on;  "but  there's 
a  date — August  9,  1798.  This  man  discovered  the 
pole,  Johnny;  take  off  your  hat.  And  the  others  came 
after.  Where's  the  last— here's  the  last— '98— 1898. 
That  was  the  year  Jamie  graduated.  I  belong  next  to 
him.  Here  goes." 

Captain  Dane  laid  himself  down  by  the  side  of  that 
last  comer  with  a  sigh,  like  that  of  a  tired  little  child 
gathered  into  its  mother's  arms,  and  when  I  got  to  him 
he  was  dead. 

I  had,  I  think,  no  feeling  of  sorrow,  or  loneliness;  I 
felt  neither  thirst  nor  hunger.  I  sat  soddenly  among 
the  discoverers,  and  nodded  my  head.  I  sat  for  hours 
nodding  my  head.  It  nodded  of  its  own  accord,  like 
the  heads  of  those  Chinese  toys  you  buy  on  Twenty- 

232 


THE  EXPLORERS 

third  Street.  Then  a  shadow  covered  me,  and  it  stopped 
nodding.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  wildly  alert,  and  looked 
upward. 

Twenty  feet  above  and  slowly  descending  was  a  bal 
loon;  over  the  edge  of  the  car  peered  a  face,  a  tiny, 
brown,  man-monkey  sort  of  face.  A  little  fur  paw 
shot  up  to  the  face,  salute  fashion,  and  a  shrill  voice 
called : 

"SdutI" 

The  balloon  came  to  earth,  and  a  little  Frenchman 
hopped  out  (for  all  his  great  bundle  of  furs  he  actually 
hopped). 

"Is  your  party  all  asleep?"  said  he  (this  time  in 
French-English). 

"No,"  said  I,  "all  these  are  dead.  They  are  men 
who  have  discovered  the  pole  at  different  times,  and 
died,  and  with  each  the  news  of  his  discovery.  I  was 
this  man's  doctor — Captain  Dane.  He  died  of — " 

A  horrible  fear  seized  me  that  if  I  said  smallpox  the 
Frenchman  would  desert  me.  But  he  uncovered  the 
Captain's  face  and  saw  for  himself. 

"Smallpox,"  said  he.     "That  is  ghastly— what ?" 

He  hopped  into  the  car  of  his  balloon  and  hopped  out 
with  a  kodak  between  his  fur  paws.  He  focussed  the 
thing  on  the  dead  man,  made  ready  to  press  the  button, 
and  suddenly  desisted. 

"Not  nice,"  he  said,  "to  kodak  those  brave,  dead 
233 


THE  EXPLORERS 

fellows.  Well,  it  is  all  very  disappointing.  Let  us  be 
off." 

"You  will  take  me?"  I  said. 

"My  God!  of  course,"  said  he. 

The  little  man  bowed  gravely  and  stood  aside  with 
many  polite  gestures  while  I  climbed  painfully  into  the 
car.  He  followed  me  with  a  single  hop — like  a  flea. 

"All  my  ingenuity  go  for  nothing,"  said  he;  "all  the 
cold  and  wind  I  have  swallowed  go  for  nothing.  We 
come  too  late,  the  little  balloon  and  I.  ..." 

He  threw  out  some  blocks  of  ice  that  he  had  for 
ballast,  the  balloon  began  to  tug  at  its  braces,  and  pres 
ently  to  rise. 

"Higher  up,"  said  the  little  Frenchman,  "is  more 
wind.  Once  up  there  we  shall  leave  in  a  great  hurry. 
.  .  .  Farewell  the  dead  heroes.  ..." 

I  heard  no  more.  When  I  came  to,  we  had  left  the 
pole  a  thousand  miles  behind  and  were  scudding 
southward. 


234 


IX 


THE    LITTLE    HEIRESS;    OR,    THE 
HUNTED  LOOK 


THE    LITTLE    HEIRESS;    OR,    THE 
HUNTED  LOOK 


The  little  heiress  had  a  hunted  look.  And  it  was  not 
the  hunted  look  of  the  girl  who  is  hunted  for  herself 
alone.  Nor  the  hunted  look  that  the  hunted  wears  in 
full  flight  when  the  chance  of  capture  is  balanced  by 
the  chance  of  escape.  Under  fair  conditions  (had  she 
been  worth  but  one  million,  or  even  two),  she  might, 
like  the  nimble  jack-rabbit  of  her  native  plains,  have 
furnished  rare  sport.  From  two  hounds,  or  even  half  a 
dozen,  she  might  then  have  run  like  a  ghost,  foreseeing 
the  strategy  of  their  pursuit,  doubling  and  dodging  to 
confuse  it,  and  vanishing  finally,  with  a  burst  of  speed 
and  a  joyous  laugh.  But  she  was  weighted  in  the  race 
by  many  more  millions  than  two.  On  the  day  of  her 
birth  the  first  million  had  come  to  her  in  the  form  of  a 
cheque,  the  signature  in  her  grandfather's  trembling  and 
honored  hand.  On  the  envelope  enclosing  it  he  had 
written  in  the  same  trembling  hand:  "A  Nest  Egg,  for 
Baby." 

237 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

But  after  that  the  millions  came  to  her  in  sad  ways 
and  with  sad  words.  First  the  heart  that  most  loved 
her  ceased  to  beat,  and  the  busy  fingers  that  had  vied 
with  Paris  and  Flanders  in  sewing  for  the  baby  were 
still.  And  they  gave  the  baby  more  millions,  but  for  a 
long  time  could  not  dry  her  eyes.  When  she  was  ten 
the  old  grandfather  died,  and  though  they  gave  her 
banks,  and  ranches,  and  oil  wells  and  mines,  she  cried 
for  him.  And  after  that  she  became  the  one  flower  in 
the  heart  of  a  stern  gray  man  who  owned  many  gardens. 
Him  she  loved  with  all  her  strength,  and  called  My 
father  with  immeasurable  pride.  Even  governesses  and 
music  masters  faded  before  his  iron  will.  She  would 
be  snatched  from  her  French  lesson  to  flash  across  the 
continent  in  a  "special."  In  the  midst  of  spelling, 
likely  as  not  at  that  very  awkward  word  phthisis,  would 
come  one  in  buttons  and  pride  to  say  "would  Miss 
please  be  ready  to  ride  with  her  father  in  twenty  min 
utes."  Then  she  would  so  hurry  to  be  ready  in  time 
that  her  cheeks  would  flush  scarlet,  and  breeched  and 
booted  she  would  clatter  down  the  marble  stair,  and 
appear  before  her  father,  gasping  and  speechless. 
Sometimes,  but  after  more  preparation,  they  would  ride 
for  days  into  the  mountains,  and  always  at  evening 
come  suddenly  in  some  wild  place  upon  white  tents,  a 
chef  in  his  cap  and  apron,  hot  water  to  bathe  in,  brass 
and  linen  beds  to  sleep  in,  a  bearded  demigod  in  a  broad 

238 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

felt  hat  to  lift  the  weary  little  heiress  from  her  horse, 
the  smell  of  cooking  to  make  her  hungry,  the  mountain 
air  to  make  her  sleepy,  and  the  exertion  and  admiration 
of  all  the  world  to  make  her  glad.  When  the  little 
heiress  rode  with  her  father  into  the  mountains  she  car 
ried  a  rifle,  and  on  the  stock  she  had  burnt  with  a  red- 
hot  hat-pin  A  (for  antelope)  B  (for  bear)  D  (for  deer) 
and  L  (for  lion),  but  there  were  no  notches  after  these 
letters,  and  sometimes  when  the  Little  Heiress  came  to 
be  hunted  herself  she  thought  of  this,  and  was  glad. 
Though  there  were  never  any  little  girls  for  her  to  play 
with,  she  was  not  very  different  from  the  general  run  of 
them.  When  she  ran  furiously  she  got  red  in  the  face, 
when  she  fell  down  and  bumped  her  nose  it  bled,  when 
her  garters  broke  her  stockings  came  down;  when  she 
was  thwarted  she  flew  into  a  passion,  and  when  her 
stomach  ached  she  howled.  The  heavy  millions  had 
not  yet  begun  to  weigh  her  down.  It  may  be  that  there 
were  not  enough.  But  many  more  were  on  the  way,  and, 
as  before,  to  pay  her  for  the  death  of  somebody  she  loved. 
She  waited  up  one  Christmas  Eve  till  very  late  for  her 
father  to  come  home.  He  had  telegraphed  that  he  would 
come.  He  would  come,  the  secretary  told  her,  over  his 
pet  railroad  in  his  pet  car  with  his  pet  engineer  at  the 
throttle,  and  he  would  make  such  time  that  the  country 
would  gasp.  But  the  great  man  came  home  more 
slowly  than  had  been  expected,  and  in  a  conveyance  in 

239 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

which  he  had  never  ridden  before.  He  came  feet  first 
into  the  big  house,  carried  by  soft  moving  men  in  high 
silk  hats,  and  he  rode  in  a  plain  black  coffin  with  silver 
handles.  But  they  would  not  let  the  Little  Heiress  look 
at  his  face,  and  she  learned  somehow — from  one  of  the 
servants,  I  think — that  "fire  had  added  to  the  horror  of 
the  accident." 

But  to  comfort  her  there  came  the  old  man  who  was 
her  father's  lawyer,  and  he  made  her  a  present  of  the 
railroad  that  had  killed  her  father,  and  other  railroads, 
and  other  things,  too  many  and  too  valuable  to  mention. 
He  gave  her  this  million  and  that — may  be  a  hundred  of 
them  and  more — but  she  could  not  be  comforted.  Nor 
did  it  comfort  her,  during  the  ten  minutes  in  which  the 
Bishop  consigned  the  dust  which  was  her  father  unto 
the  dust  of  which  he  had  been  made,  to  know  that  all 
the  locomotives  of  all  the  trains  of  all  the  railroads  of  all 
the  United  States  stood  still  upon  their  rails  during  those 
ten  minutes,  and  that  all  the  travellers  and  engineers  and 
conductors  and  brakemen  and  train  boys  in  all  the 
trains  spoke  of  her  father  in  low  voices,  and  honored  his 
memory,  and  said  how  great  he  had  been. 

Thus  all  those  who  really  loved  the  Little  Heiress 
passed  out  of  her  life,  and  she  was  taken  to  live  with  her 
father's  sister,  Aunt  Katharine,  who  learned  to  love  her 
after  a  while.  Aunt  Katharine  and  her  husband  lived 
when  their  household  was  stationary  in  one  of  several 

240 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

houses.  They  had  two  white  ones,  made  of  marble — 
one  that  stood  on  a  corner  and  looked  over  Central 
Park,  in  New  York  City,  and  one  that  was  in  Newport 
and  looked  over  the  ocean.  There  was  a  red  brick 
house  with  white  trimmings  in  London,  and  an  old 
house  made  of  wood  in  Westchester,  which  Aunt  Kath 
arine's  husband  called  "Home"  and  which  they  visited 
for  a  week  every  year  in  the  spring  time;  and  they  had 
another  wooden  house,  very  new  and  comfortable,  in  a 
little  southern  town  called  Aiken.  And  they  had  a 
brown  stone  house  with  battlements  in  the  city  where 
the  Little  Heiress  had  been  born,  but  they  only  lived  in 
that  when  they  had  to  "on  business."  But  although 
Aunt  Katharine  had  so  many  pleasant  homes  to  go  to, 
she  was  happiest  when  she  was  travelling.  And  some 
people  thought  that  she  was  not  very  happy  then;  and 
everybody  knew  that  she  never  went  to  Paris.  And 
even  the  Little  Heiress  knew  why.  Aunt  Katharine's 
little  boy  had  died  in  Paris.  That  was  why.  He  had 
taken  the  scarlet  fever,  in  London  probably,  and  on  the 
way  to  Paris  he  had  come  down  with  it.  And  Aunt 
Katharine  had  driven  all  over  Paris  with  him,  looking 
for  a  bed  to  put  him  in.  But  that  cold  rainy  day  there 
were  no  beds  to  be  had  in  Paris;  no,  not  for  the  million 
francs  that  Aunt  Katharine  could  have  drawn  her 
cheque  for.  She  tried  the  hotels,  and  they  would  not 
have  the  sick  boy;  she  tried  to  hire  a  house,  but  the 

241 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

landlords  feared  the  sick  boy  like  grim  death.  And 
Aunt  Katharine  became  desperate,  and  lied,  and  said 
that  her  little  boy  had  a  bad  cold,  nothing  more;  but 
nobody  believed  her,  and  all  the  doors  were  closed  in  her 
face.  Finally  the  hack  driver  understood  how  matters 
lay  and  turned  them  out  of  his  hack.  And  after  that 
Aunt  Katharine  carried  her  little  boy  from  house  to 
house  in  her  arms.  And  when  her  strength  gave  out 
she  sat  with  him  in  a  doorway,  and  called  on  the  passers- 
by  for  mercy,  just  as  if  she  had  been  a  woman  of  the 
streets.  There  she  sat  in  her  sables,  with  pearls  as  big 
as  cherries  round  her  neck  inside  of  her  dress,  and  others 
in  her  ears,  and  wonderful  rings  on  her  fingers,  and 
many  bank-notes  in  her  purse;  but  she  was  the  poorest 
woman  in  Paris  because  she  could  not  buy  a  bed  for  the 
little  boy  who  lay  drenched  and  burning  in  her  lap. 

Aunt  Katharine  had  rung  the  bell  of  the  door  before 
which  she  sat,  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  the  bell  was 
answered;  and  when  the  door  did  open,  and  a  woman's 
voice  said,  "What  is  the  matter?"  Aunt  Katharine  had 
lost  all  hope  and  could  not  answer.  Then  the  woman 
who  belonged  to  the  voice  took  the  little  boy  out  of 
Aunt  Katharine's  lap  and  carried  him  into  the  house. 
The  Little  Heiress  could  never  find  out  just  what  kind 
of  a  woman  she  was,  or  what  kind  of  a  house  she  lived 
in.  She  gathered  only  that  she  had  never  been  a  very 
good  woman  until  she  took  the  little  boy  into  her  house 

242 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

and  laid  him  in  her  own  bed  to  die,  and  nursed  him  and 
prayed  over  him.  But  that  had  made  a  very  good 
woman  of  her — almost  a  saint.  And  she  lived  with 
Aunt  Katharine  now,  and  was  her  maid  The"rese;  only 
she  was  never  allowed  to  do  any  hard  work,  and  Aunt 
Katharine  loved  her  like  a  sister.  She  had  refused 
Aunt  Katharine's  money  and  her  pearls  (that  was  after 
the  little  boy  died),  but  she  had  gone  on  her  knees  to 
Aunt  Katharine  and  begged  her  for  honest  employment 
and  a  chance  to  be  good. 

So  it  was  the  death  of  the  little  boy  that  prevented 
Aunt  Katharine  from  being  absolutely  happy,  and  it 
was  the  coming  of  the  Little  Heiress  to  live  with  her  that 
kept  her  from  being  absolutely  sad.  Indeed,  as  the 
Little  Heiress  grew  older  and  wiser,  Aunt  Katharine 
grew  younger  and  happier.  And,  of  course,  when  they 
met  in  the  middle  they  were  the  same  age — seventeen — 
and  loved  each  other  dearly. 


II 


The  Little  Heiress  had  a  hunted  look.  All  the  after 
noon  she  had  been  hunted  with  cards  and  cut  flowers. 
And  now  she  was  being  hunted  by  the  phalanx  of  shirt- 
fronts.  Turn  where  she  would  a  shirt-front  blocked 
her  path,  and  the  slow-moving  phalanx  drove  her  into 
it  from  behind.  But  she,  preferring  to  fall  to  the  lot  of 

243 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

the  pack,  would  turn  back  and  be  surrounded  by  it. 
To  matrons  and  girls  less  fortunate  than  the  Little 
Heiress  there  would  appear  moving  from  one  part  of 
the  ball-room  to  another  a  phalanx  of  black  backs. 
Then  it  would  stop  and  open  to  let  forth  the  Little 
Heiress  and  the  shirt-front  with  which  she  had  agreed 
to  dance:  and  the  black  backs,  pivoting,  would  show 
white  fronts  and  above  them  pairs  of  eyes  that  followed 
the  progress  of  the  Little  Heiress  in  the  dance.  As  a 
rule  she  looked  very  little  and  like  a  child  against  the 
man  with  whom  she  was  dancing,  and  when  it  was  time 
to  tell  him  that  she  could  not  sit  out  the  next  dance  with 
him  in  the  conservatory,  she  had  to  turn  up  her  face  to 
him  to  do  so.  And  then  she  looked  so  little,  and  so 
sweet  and  enticing,  just  the  way  a  pansy  looks,  that,  as 
one  man,  the  phalanx  ground  its  teeth.  And  the  eyes 
belonging  to  the  shirt-fronts  tried  to  catch  her  eyes  as 
she  drifted  past,  and  brains  belonging  to  the  shirt-fronts 
tried  to  calculate  in  just  what  part  of  the  room  she 
would  be  when  the  music  stopped.  And  the  phalanx, 
having  calculated,  would  scatter  and  reform  about  the 
Little  Heiress  when  she  stopped  dancing. 

"If  I  were  poor,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "there  might 
be  a  man  or  two  waiting  for  me  (she  had  just  seen  her 
face,  that  was  so  like  a  pansy,  in  a  long  mirror),  but  now 
it  has  to  be  just  shirt-fronts."  And  the  Little  Heiress 
sighed  as  the  phalanx  closed  about  her.  She  did  not 

244 


THE   LITTLE  HEIRESS 

even  look  at  the  ring  of  faces  above  the  ring  of  shirt- 
fronts;  for  she  knew  very  well  what  faces  were  there; 
and  more,  she  knew  what  face  was  not.  The  face  that 
the  Little  Heiress  liked  to  look  at  was  rather  a  proud 
young  face,  that  kept  itself  apart  from  the  phalanx. 
When  the  man  who  owned  the  face  thought  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  dance  with  the  Little  Heiress  he  would  cut 
through  the  phalanx  as  a  yacht  cuts  through  water,  and 
ask  her.  And  she  would  be  ready  for  him  with  her 
gladdest  smile;  just  such  a  smile  as  the  beautiful  lady 
wore  when  the  hero  rescued  her  from  the  horrible  sea 
monster.  But  gladdest  smiles,  and  the  little  hand  on 
his  arm,  made  very  little  impression  on  Proud  Face. 
When,  for  hospitality  received,  or  any  reason  as  good,  it 
was  his  duty  to  ask  her  to  dance,  he  asked  her;  when  it 
was  not  his  duty,  he  didn't.  And  there  the  matter 
rested.  But  when  the  Little  Heiress  did  get  a  chance  to 
dance  with  Proud  Face  she  lost  her  hunted  look. 
Twice,  three  times  round  the  great  room;  the  back  of 
her  neck  ached  a  little  with  looking  up  at  Proud  Face, 
and  her  lips  trembled  a  little,  perhaps  because  they 
smiled  at  him  so  much.  But  she  felt  that  she  could  go 
on  dancing  with  him,  and  turning  up  her  face  to  look  at 
him — forever.  "He  won't  ask  me  again  to-night," 
sighed  the  Little  Heiress  to  herself,  "so  don't  stop, 
music — don't  stop." 

But  the  music  stopped,  and  Proud  Face,  conducting 
245 


the  Little  Heiress  to  Aunt  Katharine  (and  the  advance 
guard  of  the  approaching  phalanx),  bowed  and  said  it 
had  been  a  pleasure,  and  left  her.  Then  the  hunted 
look  came  back  to  her,  and  before  she  could  smile 
upon  her  tormentors  she  had  to  deal  with  a  restless 
tear. 

"My  dear,"  said  Aunt  Katharine,  "somebody  has 
put  his  foot  through  your  gown." 

"  It  was  that  clumsy  man,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  in 
her  clear  voice  of  a  little  child,  and  she  pointed  to  one  of 
the  shirt-fronts.  The  face  above  the  shirt-front  red 
dened  and  began  to  mumble.  But  the  Little  Heiress 
broke  into  her  clear  laugh  of  a  little  child,  for,  though 
she  could  not  escape  from  the  hounds,  she  dearly  loved 
to  tease  and  to  annoy  them. 

"You  had  better  go  to  The'rese,"  said  Aunt  Katha 
rine,  "and  get  her  to  put  in  a  stitch." 

The  Little  Heiress  had  seen  Proud  Face  leave  the 
room,  and  she  thought  that  if  she  hurried  she  might 
overtake  him  on  his  way  to  the  smoking-room,  and — 
just  overtake  him  and  pass  him,  and  that  would  be  all. 
But  she  had  not  noticed  that  one  of  the  shirt-fronts  had 
detached  himself  from  the  phalanx  and  left  the  room  by 
the  same  door. 

"I'll  go  at  once,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  In  her 
eagerness  she  forgot  that  she  was  no  longer  a  little  child 
and,  the  long,  torn  flounce  of  her  dress  streaming  be- 

246 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

hind,  she  danced  across  the  polished  floor,  a  flash  of 
pink,  a  twinkle  of  pink  slippers,  and  vanished. 

But  she  was  not  in  time  to  catch  up  with  Proud  Face. 
And,  beyond  a  shirt-front  that  suddenly  blocked  her 
way,  she  saw  him  lift  the  portiere  of  the  smoking-room 
and  pass  in. 

"How  you  frightened  me,"  said  the  Little  Heiress 
swallowing  her  disappointment. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  shirt-front. 

"Forgiven  then,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  and  she 
made  to  pass. 

"Give  me  a  minute.     I  must  speak  to  you." 

"To  me?"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  and  she  looked 
straight  up  into  the  eyes  of  shirt-front,  and  saw  that  he 
was  one  of  those  who  had  proposed  to  her  before. 

"Can't  you  change  your  mind,"  he  said,  "dear?" 

"Often— often,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "But  not 
my  heart — but  not  my  heart." 

"Give  me  a  chance,"  said  shirt-front.  "Give  me  a 
little  hope.  You  know  I  love  you.  I  love  you  with 
my  whole  heart  and  soul."  But  there  was  no  more 
passion  or  conviction  in  shirt-front's  voice  than  in  a 
parrot's.  There  was  neither  hunger  nor  longing. 

"A  chance!"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "I  give  you 
the  whole  wide  world  in  which  to  make  a  name  for 
yourself.  I  give  you  a  will  to  keep  you  straight " 

"Then  you  do  care  for  me,"  said  shirt-front,  though 
247 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

the  remarks  of  the  Little  Heiress  were  not  meant  to  be 
so  construed. 

"I!"  cried  the  Little  Heiress.  And  she  meant  to 
say  no  more.  But  shirt-front's  words  had  carried  to 
her  clear  nostrils  a  smell  of  drink,  and  she  lost  her 
temper.  "I — when  I  love,"  said  the  Little  Heiress, 
"will  love  a  man." 

"And  what  am  I  but  a  man?" 

"You,"  she  cried,  "you  are  a  shirt-front." 

His  face  flushed  and  throbbed  with  fury. 

"You  will  live  to  repent  your  words,"  he  said. 

"I  shall  more  likely  live  to  repeat  them,"  said  the 
Little  Heiress.  She  escaped  and  ran  up  the  stairs. 

"Why  are  you  out  of  breath?"  said  Therese. 

"  Because  I  ran,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "  Look — " 
Therese  knelt  at  the  Little  Heiress's  feet  and  began  to 
sew  the  torn  flounce  to  its  place.  "First  I  ran  after  a 
man,"  panted  the  Little  Heiress,  "and  then  I  ran  away 
from  a  shirt-front." 

"Why?"  asked  Th^rese. 

"The  first,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "because  /  was 
covetous,  the  second  because  he  was." 

"Is  covetous,  coveted?"  asked  Therese. 

"No,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "But  which  do  you 
mean 

"Miss  Covetous,  I  mean,"  said  The'rese,  "who 
else?" 

248 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

"No,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "she  is  not  coveted." 
And  she  sighed.  .  .  . 

"It  is  finished,"  said  The'rese. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "Tell  me 
that  I  look  like  new." 

"You  look  like  a  flower,"  said  The'rese. 

"Like  a  pansy?"  said  the  Little  Heiress  in  a  coaxing 
voice. 

"  Like  a  pansy,"  said  The'rese. 

The  Little  Heiress  laughed  her  clear  laugh  of  a  little 
child.  But  she  went  slowly  down  the  stair,  and  had  a 
hunted  look. 

Just  as  she  reached  the  foot  of  the  stair,  however, 
Proud  Face  came  out  of  the  smoking-room. 

"You!"  said  the  Little  Heiress. 

"I,"  said  Proud  Face. 

"I've  been  to  be  mended,"  said  the  Little  Heiress. 
"What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"I  have  been  smoking,"  said  Proud  Face,  "and 
losing  money  at  cards;  and  now  I  am  going  to  thank 
your  aunt  for  a  delightful  evening." 

"  But  it's  so  very  early,"  said  the  Little  Heiress. 

"Not  for  me,"  said  Proud  Face.  "You  see,  I  be 
long  to  a  great  banker,  and  if  I  oversleep  he  will  get 
somebody  else  to  stand  in  my  shoes." 

"Let  him,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  defiantly. 

"And  if  I  did,"  said  Proud  Face,  "who  would  pay 
249 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

brother's  expenses  through  college,  and  who  would 
keep  the  wolf  from  mother's  door?"  Proud  Face 
smiled  at  the  Little  Heiress. 

"I  should  think  if  you  need  money  so  badly,"  said 
the  Little  Heiress,  and,  although  she  was  only  per 
petrating  a  joke,  she  blushed  at  certain  thoughts  which 
it  roused  in  her,  "I  should  think  that  you  would 
rather  stay  up  town  and  try  to  marry  me.  Lots  of 
men  do." 

"Men?"  queried  Proud  Face. 

"Shirt-fronts,"  corrected  the  Little  Heiress. 

Proud  Face  laughed. 

"I've  no  doubt  it  would  be  very  pleasant,"  he  said. 

The  Little  Heiress  turned  a  fiery,  a  defiant  red. 

"Try  it,"  she  said. 

"Princess,"  said  Proud  Face  gravely — sometimes  he 
called  her  Princess  in  a  mocking  voice — "turn  your 
face  to  the  light  and  let  me  look  at  you." 

She  turned  her  face  obediently  to  the  light  and  her 
lips  quivered. 

"I  see,"  he  said  very  gently,  "I  see."  And  he  stood 
a  while  in  thought. 

The  Little  Heiress  turned  her  face  away  from  the 
light. 

"You  do  see?"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  barely 
audible,  "you  do?" 

"Is  it  bad,"  he  said,  "very  bad?" 
250 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

The  Little  Heiress  took  his  hand  and  placed  it  over 
her  heart.  He  could  feel  the  heart  beating  and  flut 
tering  against  it  like  a  distracted  bird. 

"  What  does  my  heart  say  ? "  she  whispered.  "  What 
does  my  heart  say  ? " 

"But  if  I  don't  love  you?"  said  Proud  Face. 

"I  will  make  you,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  She 
reached  up  her  little  hands  to  his  big  shoulders. 

"I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,"  she  said. 
Her  slim  body  rocked  and  she  held  fast  by  his  shoul 
ders.  "I'll  give  you  the  truest  heart  that  ever  beat 
for  a  man,"  she  said. 

But  it  was  in  Proud  Face's  mind  to  shock  her  love 
to  the  death. 

"And  how  many  millions  will  you  give  me?"  he 
asked. 

"All  that  I  have,"  she  said. 

"And  how  many  have  you?" 

"How  many  shot  are  there  in  a  load?"  asked  the 
Little  Heiress.  "How  many  roses  in  a  rose  house? 
How  do  I  know." 

Proud  Face  stood  in  thought. 

"  I  tried  to  offend  you,"  he  said. 

"But  how  could  you  succeed?"  said  the  Little 
Heiress.  "I  love  you." 

Visions  of  ease  and  plenty  assailed  Proud 
Face. 

251 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

"I  don't  love  you,"  he  said  after  a  time,  "but  I  will 
be  good  to  you." 

"You  will  love  me,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "I  will 
make  you." 

She  stood  upon  the  tips  of  her  little  pink  slippers. 

"Take  that  to  your  mother,"  she  said,  "and  say  I 
sent  it." 

"Mother — mother!"  It  was  not  Proud  Face,  but 
Shame  Face,  that  knocked  upon  his  mother's  door. 

"Come  in." 

His  mother  lay  in  her  bed  reading. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  and  again,  "mother!" 

"What  has  happened,  my  dear?" 

"I  am  going  to  marry  the  Little  Heiress,  mother." 

She  looked  him  in  the  face  for  a  long  time. 

"Do  you  love  her,  my  dear?" 

Shame  Face  buried  his  face  in  the  bedclothes  and 
sobbed  aloud. 

But  there  was  nothing  shamefaced  about  the  Little 
Heiress.  And  she  returned  to  the  ball-room  almost 
blazing  with  beauty.  And  as  the  shirt-fronts  of  the 
phalanx  closed  about  her,  her  eyes  shone  with  a  won 
derful  proud  light  and  she  cried  in  her  clear  voice  of  a 
little  child: 

"I  am  all  mended,  now — gentlemen!" 
252 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

III 

The  Little  Heiress  had  a  hunted  look.  Never  since 
congratulations  were  invented  were  any  so  cold  as 
those  which  she  received.  The  very  night  of  the  ball, 
after  she  found  that  sleep  would  not  close  her  eyes, 
she  got  up  and,  regardless  of  anybody  that  might  see 
her,  ran  down  the  hall  in  her  night  gown  and  knocked 
at  Aunt  Katharine's  door.  Aunt  Katharine  was  sound 
asleep,  but  she  waked  up  and  made  room  at  her  side 
for  the  shivering  Little  Heiress.  When  the  Little  Heir 
ess  had  stopped  shivering  she  hid  her  face  in  the  pil 
lows  (because  there  was  a  night  light  in  the  room),  and 
told  Aunt  Katharine  that  she  was  going  to  be  married. 

"To  whom?"  asked  Aunt  Katharine,  with  fear  and 
suspicion  in  her  voice,  for  she  had  been  terribly  afraid 
all  along  that  some  undeserving,  fortune-hunting  shirt- 
front  would  capture  the  Little  Heiress.  The  Little 
Heiress  said  to  whom;  and  at  first  Aunt  Katharine 
gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief,  for  he  was  a  great  favorite 
with  her,  but  then  she  began  to  feel  suspicious  even 
of  him,  and  after  sliding  her  arm  about  the  Little 
Heiress  and  giving  her  a  hug,  she  said : 

"Are  you  sure  he  loves  you?" 

The  Little  Heiress  had  been  preparing  herself  for 
that  question;  but  her  preparation  went  for  nothing 
because  when  it  came  to  the  point  she  could  not  lie. 

253 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

"  I  love  him,"  she  said,  "  with  all  my  heart  and  soul, 
and  I  got  him  alone  in  the  hall  and  told  him  so,  and 
asked  him  to  marry  me.  I  told  him  that  I  would  make 
him  love  me,  if  he  would  marry  me,  and  finally  he  said 
he  would." 

"Does  he  love  youf" 

"No,  but  he's  going  to;  I'm  going  to  make 
him.  Didn't  any  man  ever  tell  you  that  if  you 
would  only  marry  him  he  would  make  you  love 
him?" 

Aunt  Katharine  was  made  very  miserable  by  what 
she  had  heard,  but  she  laughed. 

"Dozens  of  men  have  said  that  to  me,"  said  the 
Little  Heiress,  "dozens." 

"But,  dearie,"  said  Aunt  Katharine,  "your  uncle 
and  I  won't  hear  of  your  engaging  yourself  to  a  man 
who  doesn't  love  you." 

"Why?"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "He's  poor  and 
loveless,  and  I  give  him  love  and  millions.  If  I  were 
a  man,  and  he  were  a  girl,  everybody  would  say  'how 
beautiful!'" 

"Not  if  the  girl  didn't  love  the  man,"  said  Aunt 
Katharine.  "The  man  would  be  buying  her." 

"  I  want  him,"  said  the  Little  Heiress, "  why  shouldn't 
I  buy  him?" 

"Because  you  wouldn't  want  a  man  that  could  be 
bought." 

254 


THE   LITTLE   HEIRESS 

"But  I  do,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "And  besides, 
he's  going  to  love  me." 

"Until  that  happens,"  said  Aunt  Katharine,  "there 
mustn't  be  any  talk  of  engagements.  I  won't  hear 
of  it." 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  for  some  time.  The  Little  Heiress  began 
to  get  very  sleepy. 

"Are  you  sleepy?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  feel  as  if  I  should  ever  sleep  again." 

"I  am,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  She  drew  her 
knees  up  and  made  herself  very  comfortable. 

"  It's  beginning  to  be  daylight,"  said  the  Little  Heir 
ess.  "When  I  get  up  I'll  have  breakfast,  and  then 
I'll  go  see  his  mother,  and  ask  for  his  hand  in  mar 
riage." 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing,"  said  Aunt  Katharine. 

"I  will,"  said  the  Little  Heiress. 

Then  there  was  another  silence. 

"Aunt  Katharine —  The  Little  Heiress's  voice 
was  very  sleepy. 

"What?" 

"I  shall  always  be  very  good  to  him." 

Aunt  Katharine  set  her  mouth  firmly  and  did  not 
deign  to  answer. 

"I  shall  find  out  when  his  birthday  is  and  give  him  a 
railroad." 

255 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

"You'll  be  sent  to  a  lunatic  asylum  if  you're  not 
careful." 

"Nonsense!" 
Another  long  silence. 

"Aunt  Katharine " 

"What?" 
"Nothing."    .   .    . 

When  she  had  had  her  breakfast,  for  she  was  up  by 
eleven  o'clock  that  morning,  the  Little  Heiress  wrote 
notes  to  all  the  men  who  had  ever  proposed  to  her, 
and  told  them  that  she  was  going  to  be  married.  The 
notes  were  all  exactly  alike,  and  she  wrote  them  as  fast  as 
she  could.  Except  for  the  different  names  at  the  begin 
ning  of  each  note,  they  were  like  this — spelling  included : 

—  Because  you  often  say  you  have  my  happiness  at  heart,  I 
tell  you  as  fast  as  I  can  that  I  am  happy  for  allways  now,  and 
going  to  be  married  to  the  best  man  God  ever  made,  and  live  with 
him  allways  and  be  happy.  I  hope  that  you  will  allways  be 
happy.  And  that  everybody  will — 

Then  she  went  to  see  his  mother. 

"Please  say,"  she  burst  out  with,  "that  you  don't 
mind  my  marrying  your  son.  I  love  him  so,  and  I 
will  be  a  good  daughter  to  you,  and  a  good  wife  to  him 
always.  Did  he  give  you  the  kiss  I  sent  you?  And 
may  I  give  you  another,  please  ?  I  want  to  kiss  every 
body  and  everything  that  belongs  to  him." 

256 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

His  mother's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Dear  child,"  she  said,  and  she  folded  the  Little 
Heiress  to  her  heart,  "you  mustn't  think  of  marrying 
him." 

"Just  what  my  aunt  says,"  said  the  Little  Heiress. 
"  But  why— but  why  ?" 

"He  doesn't  love  you,"  said  his  mother. 

"But  he  will,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "I  will  make 
him." 

"He  is  going  to  you  this  afternoon  to  say  that  he 
cannot  marry  you." 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  but  she  turned 
white  at  the  thought.  "There  are  law  courts,  and 
suits  for  breach  of  promise,"  She  laughed.  But  his 
mother  didn't  laugh. 

"I  don't  know  why  he  doesn't  love  you,"  she  said. 
"I  wish  to  heaven  he  did.  I  do." 

"Do  you?"  cried  the  Little  Heiress.  "Oh!  I  love 
you  for  loving  me.  And  by  and  by  he  will  love  me 
for  loving  him.  He  must;  mustn't  he  must?" 

It  was  Saturday,  which  the  Little  Heiress  had  for 
gotten,  and  just  as  she  had  spoken  the  door  opened 
and  in  he  came. 

"Oh,"  he  said. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  And  his  mother  left 
them.  He  was  no  longer  Shame  Face,  but  Proud  Face 
again. 

257 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

"I  have  told  our  engagement  to  everybody  I  could," 
said  the  Little  Heiress. 

"You  haven't,"  said  he. 

"I  have,"  she  said. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  he  said,  "that  you  meant  what  you 
said  last  night." 

"Mean  it!"  cried  the  Little  Heiress.  "Why  am  I 
here  but  to  tell  your  mother  that  I  love  you,  and  ask 
her  permission  to  marry  you,  and  say  that  I  will  be  a 
good  daughter  to  her?" 

"Is  that  why  you  are  here?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  threw  me  down — she  threw  me  down,"  said  the 
Little  Heiress.  "But  it's  a  poor  love  that  shies  at 
opposition." 

"She  was  right." 

"She  was  wrong.  And  you  haven't  seen  me  for  hours, 
and  you  have  promised  to  marry  me,  and  you  ought 
to  come  forward  and  kiss  me." 

He  came  forward  smiling,  but  a  little  distressed. 

"Wait,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "Is  it  to  be  all  for 
my  pleasure  and  none  for  yours?  Do  you  want  to 
kiss  me?" 

"I  think,"  said  Proud  Face,  "that  I  can  go  so  far 
as  to  say  that  I  do."  He  came  still  further  for 
ward. 

258 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

"Wait,"  she  said.  "Last  night — did  you  want  to 
kiss  me?" 

He  thought  carefully. 

"Not  exactly,  I  think,"  he  said. 

"But  now  you  want  to,"  cried  the  Little  Heiress 
triumphantly.  "That's  something — that's  something. 
Oh!  my  dear  love." 

In  spite  of  himself  the  kiss  thrilled  Proud  Face  to 
the  heart. 

"And  what,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "is  all  this 
talk  of  me  giving  you  up  ?  I  won't." 

"How  old  are  you?"  said  Proud  Face. 

"I  am  seventeen,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "But  I 
look  younger,  and  I  know  my  own  mind,  if  that's 
what  you  mean." 

"It's  like  robbing  a  cradle,"  said  Proud  Face. 

But  the  Little  Heiress  turned  up  her  face,  which  was 
so  like  a  pansy,  to  him,  and  there  was  an  immense 
seriousness  in  her  eyes. 

"My  God!"  began  Proud  Face  with  a  kind  of  sob  in 
his  voice,  but  he  could  not  go  on,  and  he  said,  "My 
God!"  again. 

"How  are  you  going  to  help  loving  me,"  cried  the 
Little  Heiress,  "  when  I  love  you  so.  Tell  me.  Are  you 
trying  to  help  it?" 

Proud  Face  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  he 
smiled. 

259 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

"Perhaps  I  am  trying,"  he  said. 

"But  you  mustn't  try  not,"  said  the  Little  Heiress. 
"  You  must  try  to.  Think  how  happy  you  will  be  when 
you  do." 

"I  am  not  worthy,"  said  Proud  Face,  "to  kiss  the 
dust  on  your  little  shoes.  May  I?" 

"If  you  do,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "I  will  kiss  the 
dust  on  yours." 

IV 

"If  I  come  to  see  you,"  wrote  Proud  Face  to  the 
Little  Heiress,  "you  will  hypnotize  me  and  I  won't  be 
able  to  say  what  I  mean.  Can  I  tell  you  to  your  face 
that  I  do  not  love  you,  and,  not  loving  you,  cannot, 
will  not  marry  you?  No.  Not  to  your  lovely  face. 
Do  you  think  it  is  easy  to  write  it?  And  to  confess 
that  I  am  a  fool  ?  Sure  anybody  but  a  fool  would  love 
you,  and  most  of  the  fools,  too,  as  I  think.  But  this 
fool  doesn't.  Hate  me — hate  me!  Hate  me!" 

And  the  Little  Heiress  wrote  back: 

"I  draw  the  line  at  any  further  humiliation.  I  give 
you  up.  Give  my  love  to  your  stubborn  heart.  Think 
of  me  kindly  if  you  can.  We  shall  not  see  each  other 
any  more,  except  by  accident.  I  can't  think  of  any 
more  to  say.  Good-by."  .  .  . 

Though  this  answer  was  what  Proud  Face  told  him 
self  he  had  hoped  for,  it  came  to  him  as  something  of  a 

260 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

shock.  There  were  not,  after  all,  so  many  flowers  in 
the  garden  of  his  life  that  he  cared  to  have  the  Little 
Heiress  lifted  from  it,  roots  and  all,  and  set  in  some 
other  garden  beyond  the  wall,  where  he  could  not  even 
see  her  any  more.  All  that  day,  and  for  many  days, 
he  would  have  in  the  midst  of  his  work  a  sudden  sink 
ing  feeling,  and  would  realize  after  a  moment  or  two 
that  he  was  thinking  of  the  Little  Heiress  and  how  that 
she  was  gone  out  of  his  life  forever.  He  was  not  the 
least  little  bit  angry  with  her  for  having  first  announced 
the  engagement,  and  then  the  disengagement.  He 
met  the  looks  of  his  friends  with  an  unabashed  look,  and 
nobody  dared  ask  him  questions.  But  in  his  heart  he 
was  ashamed,  humiliated  and  troubled;  and  he  did 
not  do  his  work  properly,  and  he  felt  his  ambitions 
slipping  away  from  him.  He  felt  obliged,  too,  not  to 
go  any  more  into  society  for  fear  that  he  would  meet 
the  Little  Heiress,  and  make  her  uncomfortable. 

Meanwhile  the  shirt-fronts  gathered  once  more  about 
the  Little  Heiress  and  beset  her  goings  and  her  comings 
with  attentions.  But  she  seemed  an  easier  and  more 
willing  prey  than  formerly.  When  this  shirt-front  or 
that  talked  to  her  of  love  she  listened  as  if  she  enjoyed 
listening,  and  she  was  always  willing  to  sit  out  a  dance, 
and  was  always  "at  home"  when  the  shirt-fronts  called, 
and  she  adorned  herself  with  selections  from  the  flowers 
that  they  sent  her,  and  she  gave  this  shirt-front  her 

261 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

gloves  to  hold  and  did  not  ask  them  back,  and  her  fan 
to  that  shirt-front,  and  her  most  inviting  smiles  to  them 
all.  And  all  the  shirt-fronts  believed  that  it  could  not 
be  long  before  she  would  engage  herself  to  one  of 
them.  And  each  shirt-front  thought  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  that  it  might  be  to  him.  For,  very  wickedly, 
she  encouraged  each  one  whenever  she  had  the 
chance. 

"I  will  make  you  love  me,"  one  would  say. 

"If  you  only  can,"  the  Little  Heiress  would  answer 
earnestly. 

"  If  you'll  only  give  me  the  chance." 

"Now  is  the  chance." 

But  the  suddenness  of  the  opportunity  always  found 
the  shirt-front  unprepared  and  left  him  stuttering  before 
the  sweet  gravity  and  read i ness-to-be-made- to-love  of 
the  Little  Heiress.  Something  of  the  Little  Heiress's 
flirtations — heaven  alone  knows  how — came  to  the 
knowledge  of  Proud  Face.  It  may  be  that  where  she 
was  concerned  his  mind  was  superhumanly  alert.  It 
may  be  that  his  mother  heard  things  and  hinted  at 
them.  Anyway,  it  was  constantly  in  his  thoughts 
that  she  was  playing  fast  and  loose  with  her  chances 
of  happiness,  and,  for  none  knew  her  impulsiveness  and 
rashness  better  than  Proud  Face,  might  readily,  be 
cause  of  pique  and  disappointment  and  general  head- 
strongness,  turn  deliberately  down  some  path  that 

262 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

would  lead  to  nothing  but  misery.  "Ah,"  thought  he, 
"if  I  only  loved  her."  And,  though  he  did  not  love 
her,  yet  whenever  he  thought  of  the  two  kisses  she  had 
given  him  (which  was  often),  he  wished  that  he  did, 
and  whenever  he  stopped  thinking  of  them  (which  was 
seldom),  he  felt  sad  and  disjointed. 

Very  late  one  night,  as  he  was  walking  home  from  an 
usher's  dinner,  full  of  discontent,  he  passed  by  Aunt 
Katharine's  house,  and,  looking  up  the  shimmering 
marble  face  of  it,  saw  that  in  the  windows  of  one  of 
the  corner  rooms  there  were  still  lights.  "The  Little 
Heiress  is  still  up,"  he  thought,  and  he  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  a  lamp-post  and  watched  the  lights.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  not  for  a  long  time  had  he  been  in 
any  employment  that  was  so  pleasant.  He  hoped  that 
the  lights  would  not  soon  be  put  -out.  The  night  was 
sweet  and  fresh  and  warm.  The  city  was  silent.  Peace 
was  upon  it,  and,  above,  the  stars.  Proud  Face  stood 
on  and  on,  in  the  shadow  of  the  lamp-post,  and  still  the 
lights  burned  in  the  corner  windows. 

The  voices  of  the  bronze-throated  bells  began  sud 
denly  to  sound  in  the  church  steeples.  But  the  silence 
returned.  .  .  .  Again  the  bells  rang;  and  back  came 
the  silence,  and  the  lights  in  the  corner  windows  still 
shone. 

"But  they  must  go  soon,"  thought  Proud  Face, 
"soon." 

263 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

And  with  that,  just  as  if  they  had  been  waiting  for  a 
•signal,  out  went  the  lights. 

Then  Proud  Face  realized  that  he  was  tired  and 
cold.  But  for  a  moment  or  two  longer  he  kept  his  sad 
eyes  upon  the  windows. 

"They  want  me  to  take  the  California  branch,"  he 
thought."  Everybody  wants  me  to,  Mamma  wants  me 
to — and  I  think  that  I  must — now  that  the  lights  are 
out — out.  Oh,"  he  thought  bitterly,  "there  is  nothing 
for  me — nothing." 

His  shadow  separated  from  the  shadow  of  the  lamp 
post,  and  his  steps  rang  in  the  street. 

The  next  morning  he  accepted  the  California  branch, 
and  began  his  preparations  for  the  long  journey. 


Whether  or  not  a  little  bird  told  the  Little  Heiress 
that  Proud  Face  was  going  to  shake  the  dust  of  New 
York  from  his  feet  is  unknown.  It  may  be  that  any 
news  concerning  him  was  just  a  part  of  the  air  that 
she  breathed.  It  doesn't  matter.  She  learned  that  he 
was  to  go,  and  after  that  managed  very  quickly  to  learn 
when  and  how.  Then  she  wrote  him  a  note. 

"  Don't  go  without  saying  good-by.  If  you  could  come  Satur 
day  at  three.  You  start  Saturday  at  five,  don't  you  ?  Could  you 
come  then?  I'd  like  to  wish  you  good  luck  to  your  face." 

264    . 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

When  Proud  Face  came  (Saturday  at  exactly  three), 
he  found  the  Little  Heiress  expecting  him.  She  was 
hatted  and  gloved  to  go  out,  and  she  had  a  hunted 
look. 

"So  it's  good-by,"  said  Proud  Face,  "and  good  luck." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "But  why  did  you 
stand  so  long  and  look  up  at  my  window — the  other 
night?" 

"Oh,"  said  Proud  Face,  and  he  blushed. 

"I  watched  you  watch,"  said  the  Little  Heiress, 
"until  I  thought  it  couldn't  be  good  for  you  to  stand 
so  long  in  the  night,  and  then  I  put  out  the  lights,  and 
you  went  away." 

"Yes,"  said  Proud  Face,  "and  then  I  went  away." 

"And  now  you  go  on  a  journey.  And  I,"  said  the 
Little  Heiress,  "go  to  walk  in  the  Park." 

"Alone?"  said  Proud  Face,  and  he  tried  to  smile. 

"Alone,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "For  you — all 
good  things — all  good  luck.  You'll  not  be  coming 
back  soon?" 

"Not  soon,"  said  Proud  Face.  And  he  felt  as  if  he 
were  ringing  the  bells  at  his  own  funeral. 

"  Are  you  going  alone  ? "  asked  the  Little  Heiress. 

"  Alone  ?  "     Proud  Face  did  not  understand. 

"Are  you  going  with  gladness,  I  mean." 

"Oh!"  said  Proud  Face,  "alone — so  far  as  gladness 
goes." 

265 


THE  LITTLE  HEIRESS 

"Shall  we  say  good-by?"  said  the  Little  Heiress. 

"Yes,"  said  Proud  Face.  His  voice  was  very  gen 
tle  and  tired.  "  Good-by." 

"Do  you  feel  a  little  wretched,  too?"  said  the  Little 
Heiress. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Proud  Face  simply.  "And,"  he 
faltered,  "will  you  write  to  me  when — you  find  happi 
ness?  There's  an  old  absurd  word,  'rejoice,'"  he  went 
on,  "  I  would  rejoice  to  hear  that  you  were  happy." 

"Me?  Happy?"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  and  she 
sighed. 

"Don't,"  said  Proud  Face,  "I  can't  bear  it." 

"Between  us,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "there  must 
always  be  good  wishes." 

She  held  up  her  face  that  was  so  like  a  pansy,  a  sad 
pansy,  to  Proud  Face,  and  they  kissed.  The  Little 
Heiress  trembled  a  little;  for  she  knew  that  she  had 
shot  her  last  bolt. 

Presently,  very  shyly,  she  looked  at  Proud  Face,  and 
she  found  that  he  was  beaming  on  her  like  the  sun. 
His  face  was  like  a  boy's;  like  the  face  of  a  prisoner 
that  has  been  freed;  like  a  demi-god's. 

"Oh!"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "oh!"  And  then, 
very  timidly,  she  said,  "shall  you  go  now?" 

"Now!"  said  Proud  Face,  in  a  voice  that  rang  like  a 
bell.  "I  shall  not  go." 

"When?"  said  the  Little  Heiress. 
266 


THE  LITTLE   HEIRESS 

"Never,"  said  Proud  Face. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Little  Heiress.  "They  will  say  I 
have  bought  you." 

"Not  with  millions,"  said  Proud  Face;  "with  love 
liness." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Little  Heiress,  "say  it  was  the 
kisses — the  three  kisses.  It  was  on  those  that  I  staked 
my  all." 

"I  don't  believe,"  said  Proud  Face,  "that  the  kisses 
had  anything  to  do  with  it.  I  think  it  was  just  you — 
just  you.  But  I'm  going  to  find  out." 

"Are  you  ?"  cried  the  Little  Heiress,  and  she  dodged 
him. 

Aunt  Katharine  was  surprised  to  find  them  on  oppo 
site  sides  of  a  big  table.  The  Little  Heiress  still  had  a 
hunted  look,  but  it  was  an  entirely  new  kind. 


267 


THE  BEST  MAN 


Stanislas  Odeskalki,  the  best  man,  and  O'Gosh,  the 
interpreter,  helped,  as  did  old  man  Openta.  But 
Orloff  Openta  and  Olenka  were  really  married  by  the 
mayor.  He  made  Orloff  kiss  Olenka;  shook  hands 
with  them;  said  that  he  hoped  they  would  be  a  loving 
couple;  made  the  remark  that  everybody's  name  began 
with  O,  and  wished  them  good-day.  Then  he  turned 
to  a  document  which  demanded  his  signature,  and 
puffed  at  his  cigar,  which  had  almost  gone  out. 

Orloff,  Olenka,  Stanislas  Odeskalki  and  old  man 
Openta  went  up  town  by  the  Elevated,  and  hurried  to 
the  rooms  in  East  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-third 
Street,  near  the  river,  which  Orloff  had  hired  for  him 
self  and  his  bride  and  his  father  to  live  in.  It  was  a 
bitter  afternoon  in  January.  Dark  clouds  hung  low 
over  the  city,  and  occasionally  flurries  of  snow  were 
torn  from  them.  In  many  windows  lights  already 
glowed.  Old  man  Openta  walked  ahead,  giving  his 
arm  to  Olenka,  who  was  so  rosy  and  fresh-looking  that 

271 


THE  BEST  MAN 

men  turned  their  heads  to  look  after  her.  The  best 
man  and  the  groom  brought  up  the  rear.  The  bride 
groom's  face  was  bright  and  smiling,  and  he  kept  his 
eyes  steadily  on  the  bride;  but  the  best  man  scowled 
continually  and  complained  of  the  cold.  Only  once 
did  he  speak  of  anything  else. 

"But  you  should  have  told  me,"  he  said,  "what  a 
pretty  girl  she  is.  You  must  look  out  or  some  fellow 
will  take  her  from  you." 

He  cheered  up  when  the  four  flights  of  stairs  leading 
to  the  Opentas'  new  rooms  had  been  surmounted. 

"Now  we  are  going  to  feed,"  he  said. 

Old  man  Openta  unlocked  the  door,  and,  motioning 
to  the  others  to  wait,  crossed  the  threshold,  turned  and 
held  out  his  hands. 

"Welgub,"  he  said.  He  affected  the  English  lan 
guage  with  ostentation,  but  the  others  clung  to  Polish. 
Olenka  hesitated  and  looked  at  her  husband,  blushing. 

"But  go  in,"  he  said,  and  he  pushed  her  gently 
toward  the  opening.  "This  is  no  time  to  hang  back." 

Old  man  Openta  embraced  her  when  she  had  crossed 
the  threshold. 

"Welgub  do  your  hobe,"  he  said. 

Openta  pushed  Odeskalki  into  the  room,  followed 
and  closed  the  door. 

"Well,  here  we  are,"  he  said.  "What  do  you  think 
of  it?" 

272 


THE  BEST  MAN 

Odeskalki  began  to  look  about  critically.  "  It  is  easy 
to  see  that  a  woman  has  not  lived  here,"  he  said. 
"You  ought  to  have  curtains.  Mrs.  Openta  will  be 
lonely  without  curtains.  But  how  many  rooms  are 
there?" 

"There  is  this  one,"  said  Openta,  "for  the  cooking- 
stove  and  father,  and  there  is  that  one" — he  pointed  to 
a  second  door,  closed — "for  us." 

Odeskalki  moved  toward  the  closed  door  and  laid 
his  hand  on  the  knob. 

"  Do  not  go  in  there,"  said  Openta,  a  little  sharply. 

"Why  not?"  said  Odeskalki. 

"  Because  it  would  not  be  proper,"  said  Openta. 

"If  I  don't  know  what's  proper,"  said  Odeskalki 
angrily,  "I  don't  know  who  does.  But  the  rooms  are 
yours — such  as  they  are."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"You  will  say  next  that  it  will  not  be  proper  to  light  a 
fire  in  the  stove.  It  is  terribly  cold." 

"No,"  said  Openta,  "I  will  not  say  that";  and  he 
began  to  busy  himself  with  an  old  newspaper  and  some 
kindlings.  Soon  thick  smoke  was  oozing  through  the 
cracks  of  the  stove,  but  presently,  as  the  pipe  warmed, 
the  smoke  was  drawn  into  it,  and  a  fine  crackling  sound 
filled  the  room. 

"That  is  better,"  said  Odeskalki.  "But  the  smoke 
has  made  me  cough." 

Olenka  went  close  to  the  stove  and  spread  out  her 
273 


THE  BEST  MAN 

hands  to  catch  the  warmth.     "I  think  a  fire  Is  so 
home-like,"  she  said. 

"But  the  room  is  warming  up,"  said  Openta.  "Don't 
stand  on  ceremony.  Let  us  all  take  our  coats  off." 
He  started  forward  to  help  Olenka,  but  Odeskalki  in 
tervened. 

"No,  let  me  do  it,"  he  said. 

"All  right,"  said  Openta,  "and  I  will  help  father  off 
with  his." 

In  helping  Olenka,  Odeskalki  pressed  her  shoulders 
with  his  hands,  but  very  slightly,  so  as  not  to  give 
offence. 

"Openta,"  he  said,  "you  will  not  need  the  stove  with 
such  a  wife." 

Openta  and  Olenka  blushed  and  became  greatly 
confused. 

"Bud,"  said  old  man  Openta,  "be  goodn't  goog 
bidoud  a  stobe." 

"And  now,"  said  Openta,  "it  is  time  for  Olenka  to 
enter  upon  her  first  duties  as  a  wife."  He  pointed  to 
a  large,  broad  cupboard  in  one  corner  of  the  room. 

"Obed  id,"  said  the  old  man. 

Olenka  approached  the  cupboard  bashfully  and 
hesitatingly,  as  if  she  expected  that  something  of  a 
comic  nature  would  spring  out  of  it. 

"But  open  it,"  said  her  husband  encouragingly. 

"Id  bill  dod  bide,"  said  his  father. 
274 


THE  BEST  MAN 

Olenka  smiled  over  her  shoulder  at  the  three  men. 
At  times  she  fairly  astonished  by  her  prettiness.  She 
was  as  out  of  place  in  that  shabby  room  as  an  orchid 
would  have  been.  You  would  not  have  been  sur 
prised  to  learn  that  she  was  a  princess — even  a  fairy 
princess — in  disguise.  Her  voice  was  tender  and 
haunting,  like  the  middle  register  of  a  fine  old  'cello 
when  a  master  is  playing.  Her  feet  moved  in  and  out 
under  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  timidly  and  gently,  like  two 
mice.  If  you  had  been  in  the  hall  and  had  heard  her 
laugh,  you  would  have  said,  "Somebody  is  making  a 
child  happy  in  that  room." 

Presently,  with  a  great  show  of  courage,  she  flung 
open  the  cupboard  door  and  at  once  began  to  emit  ex 
clamations  of  surprise  and  pleasure.  For,  aside  from 
china  and  glass  of  permanent  utility,  the  shelves  of  the 
cupboard  displayed  enough  cold  meats,  salad,  oranges, 
nuts,  raisins,  celery,  jelly-cake  and  wine  to  give  delight 
to  the  moment. 

Soon  the  good  things  were  transferred  to  the  table, 
and  a  real  feast  began.  Olenka  presided;  but  so  in 
tent  was  she  on  seeing  that  the  men's  plates  were  always 
filled  that  she  did  not  find  time  to  eat  more  than  a  few 
mouthfuls  herself.  Old  man  Openta  became  loqua 
cious.  Openta  himself  beamed  on  the  party  and  kept 
jumping  from  his  seat  to  heap  fuel  into  the  stove.  It 
began  to  get  red-hot.  Odeskalki  scowled  continually, 

275 


THE  BEST  MAN 

but  it  was  noticed  that  he  ate  and  drank  as  much  as  he 
could  get. 

"But  you  mustn't  mind  his  dark  looks,"  said  Openta 
to  Olenka.  "At  heart  he  is  not  an  ill-natured  fel 
low." 

Odeskalki  only  scowled  the  more,  and,  filling  his  glass, 
toasted  Olenka.  His  voice  was  sulky  and  funereal,  like 
that  of  a  bishop  consigning  a  dead  person  to  the 
earth. 

"May  you  be  happy,"  he  said,  and  shook  his  head 
gloomily. 

"It  is  always  so  with  him  when  he  drinks,"  said 
Openta.  "You  would  think  him  a  dragon,  not  a  man, 
but  at  heart  he  is  not  an  ill-natured  fellow." 

"  I  gad  ead  do  bore,"  said  old  man  Openta  suddenly, 
and  probably  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  rose, 
Dairying  his  glass  of  wine,  and  placed  himself  with  his 
back  to  the  stove.  From  this  coign  of  vantage  he 
beamed  optimistically  on  the  party. 

Odeskalki  drew  out  a  fat  silver  watch  and  scowled 
•at  it. 

"Time  for  us  to  be  off,"  he  said  to  Openta. 

"It  is  really  too  bad,"  said  Openta  to  the  bride, 
"but  I  could  not  seem  to  make  them  understand. 
And  if  I  were  to  stay  with  you  I  should  lose  my  place. 
But  next  week  I  shall  be  put  on  the  day  shift.  It  was 
all  I  could  do  to  get  off  this  afternoon  to  be  married." 

276 


THE  BEST  MAN 

"When  do  you  think  you  will  come  back?"  said 
Olenka. 

"Perhaps  not  before  one  or  two  o'clock,"  said 
Openta. 

"To-night,"  said  Odeskalki  sulkily,  "there  is  to 
be  a  large  dinner  for  men  given  by  a  young  man 
who  is  going  to  be  married.  There  will  be  a  real  lake 
in  the  middle  of  the  table,  with  banks  of  ferns  and  red 
roses,  and  live  ducks  swimming  in  it.  It  is  impossible 
to  say  when  the  affair  will  break  up,  for  there  will  be  a 
great  deal  of  hard  drinking — and  not  ordinary  white 
wine  like  this,  I  can  tell  you.  Those  young  fellows, 
will  not  have  anything  but  the  best  imported  cham 
pagne,  costing  you,  perhaps,  six  dollars  the  bottle.. 
That's  the  kind  of  a  feast  to  have." 

"You  see,"  said  Openta  gently,  "this  envious  fellow 
and  I  will  be  kept  busy  serving  courses  and  drawing; 
corks  until  the  last  guest  goes.  There  will  be  eight  of 
us  waiters,  one  for  every  four  guests.  But  I  will  come 
home  as  soon  as  may  be,  and  I  will  wake  you  up." 

"But  I  shall  not  go  to  sleep  until  you  come,"  said 
Olenka. 

The  young  couple  could  not  meet  each  other's  eyes, 
but  flushed  hotly  and  looked  down. 

"Ahem!"  said  Odeskalki. 

Old  man  Openta,  from  his  position  in  front  of  the 
stove,  began  suddenly  to  speak  in  a  loud,  sing-song. 

277 


THE  BEST  MAN 

voice.     "Barriage,"  he  said,  "is  dod  all  peer  ad  skid- 
dies.     Barriage  is — 

An  expression  of  acute  pain  suddenly  covered  his 
face.  He  dropped  his  glass,  clutched  the  seat  of  his 
trousers  with  both  hands,  and  sprang  forward.  Then 
tears  came  into  his  eyes  and  he  began  to  tremble. 

"What  has  happened  to  you,  father?"  cried  Openta, 
rushing  toward  his  parent. 

"Don'd  dudge  be,"  said  the  old  man. 

" But  what  is  it ?    Are  you  suffering?" 

"Id  is  dotig,"  said  the  old  man  presently,  in  a  choking 
voice.  "I  haf  purned  by  pridges  pehind  be." 

Odeskalki  scowled  at  the  old  man.  "You  ought  to 
have  known  better  than  to  stand  so  close  to  the  stove," 
he  said.  "Come,  Openta,  or  we  shall  be  late,  and, 
furthermore,  God  alone  knows  what  may  happen 
next." 

The  old  man  scowled  at  Odeskalki. 

The  young  men  put  on  their  overcoats.  Openta 
hesitated,  looked  for  a  moment  sheepishly  at  Odeskalki, 
and  then,  turning  to  the  little  bride,  opened  his  arms 
with  complete  frankness.  She  ran  into  them.  And 
for  a  few  moments,  so  eager  was  the  embrace,  they 
swayed  to  and  fro. 

Odeskalki  fixed  his  handsome,  scowling  eyes  upon 
them.  "I  hope  you  will  be  happy,"  he  said,  "but  I 
do  not  think  much  ever  comes  of  hoping." 

278 


THE  BEST  MAN 

II 

For  about  two  hours  Odeskalki,  Openta,  and  six 
other  waiters,  representing  nearly  as  many  different 
nationalities,  worked  swiftly  and  in  silence  to  promote 
the  ease  and  comfort  of  thirty-two  young  gentlemen 
who  had  come  to  sit  on  the  outer  edges  of  a  hollow 
square  and  make  beasts  of  themselves.  The  hollow  in 
the  white  damask  square  was  occupied  by  four  descend 
ing  banks  of  maidenhair  fern  and  Jaqueminot  roses 
which  terminated  in  physical  reality  at  the  edges  of  a 
square  mirror-bottomed  tank,  and  continued  into  it  in 
lovely  illusion.  In  the  tank  a  pair  of  gorgeous  mallard 
ducks  swam  and  occasionally  dove,  seeking  vainly  to 
seize  the  reflected  roses  and  ferns  in  their  gritty  bills. 
Occasionally  food  more  substantial  than  shadows  was 
tossed  to  them  in  the  shape  of  bread  pellets,  celery  ends 
and  even  olives,  which  they  ate  with  avidity.  But  the 
supply  became  at  length  greater  than  the  demand,  and 
the  water  in  the  tank  began  to  look  less  like  good 
Croton  than  bad  soup.  Whenever  their  duties  brought 
them  close  together  Odeskalki  whispered  sour  comments 
to  Openta. 

"Let  them  look  to  us  for  good  manners.  That  fel 
low  with  red  hair  has  no  more  breeding  than  a  hog. 
Give  me  wealth  and  champagne,  and  I  would  not  talk 
like  a  sewer.  The  little  fat  son  of  a  dog  is  beckoning 

279 


THE  BEST  MAN 

to  me  and  pointing  to  his  empty  plate.  Let  some  one 
else  fill  it." 

He  became  more  and  more  displeased  with  his  own 
lot  and  was  inclined  to  visit  his  wrath  on  the  meek  and 
inoffensive  Openta. 

"Such  a  husband,"  he  said.  "You  should  have 
stayed  with  your  wife  to-night,  even  if  you  lost  your 
position  by  doing  so.  Instead,  you  are  skipping  about 
like  a  monkey  and  currying  favor  with  the  rich.  For 
God's  sake,  have  some  spirit;  imitate  me  when  you 
fill  a  glass.  Do  not  look  as  if  the  act  were  a  pleasure, 
but  a  condescension." 

Odeskalki,  for  all  his  scorn  and  scowling,  kept  a  clear 
and  ready  eye  on  opportunity  and  had  already  drunk 
enough  champagne  out  of  partially  emptied  bottles  to 
make  his  blood  boil.  But  alcohol  did  not  cheer  him. 
Ever  since  early  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  had  seen 
Olenka  for  the  first  time,  he  had  been  bitter  with  fate. 
Her  girlishness,  innocence,  and  beauty  had  exerted  a 
powerful  physical  attraction  on  the  man,  and  as  the 
champagne  mounted  to  his  head  he  began  to  imagine 
scenes  in  which  he  figured  as  her  lover.  "Only  let 
this  silly  Openta  have  a  care,"  he  thought,  "or  he  will 
wake  up  some  morning  with  a  pair  of  horns  to  add  to 
his  absurd  appearance."  At  times  the  thought  that 
Openta  would  possess  Olenka  made  him  furious.  Un 
consciously,  the  thought  that  Openta  was  absenting 

280 


THE  BEST  MAN 

himself  from  her  rather  than  lose  his  position  in  the 
restaurant  made  him  more  furious.  Then  self-pitj 
would  make  his  heart  gentle  and  swell  into  pity  for 
Openta  and  pity  for  Olenka.  "It  is  simply  terrible," 
he  thought,  "to  think  that  I  shall  come  between  them." 

A  large  screen  of  Spanish  leather  in  one  corner  of  the 
room  shielded  from  view  a  table  covered  with  removes 
and  a  great  tub  containing  ice  and  champagne.  Several 
times  during  the  course  of  the  dinner  Odeskalki  and 
Openta  found  themselves  alone  behind  this  screen.  On 
one  such  occasion  Odeskalki  hastily  filled  two  glasses 
with  champagne,  and  said: 

"Quick,  man— to  Olenka!" 

Openta  hesitated. 

"Curse  you,"  said  Odeskalki  in  a  fierce  whisper. 
"I  will  not  be  friends  with  a  man  who  will  not  drink  to 
his  own  wife." 

Openta  had  a  weak  head,  and  that  one  glass  stimu 
lated  him  wonderfully.  It  was  not  difficult,  a  little 
later,  for  Odeskalki  to  persuade  him  to  take  another. 

"May  you  be  fruitful  and  multiply,"  he  said. 

The  third  glass  which  Openta  drank  was  at  his  own 
instigation. 

"Come  behind  the  screen,"  he  said;  "it  is  only  right 
that  we  should  drink  your  health  now." 

Odeskalki  went  willingly  enough.  "But  don't  take 
too  much,  Openta,"  he  said,  and  experienced  a  yirtuous 

281 


THE  BEST  MAN 

sense  of  having  done  his  duty.  A  few  minutes  later 
Openta  dropped  an  armful  of  plates,  and  the  other 
waiters  cursed  him. 

Some  of  the  young  gentlemen  had  begun  preparing 
for  the  dinner  early  in  the  afternoon  by  drinking  cock 
tails.  Others  had  been  making  up  for  lost  time  by 
drinking  whole  glasses  of  champagne  at  a  swallow. 
Champagne  had  made  its  appearance  with  the  oysters. 
By  each  plate  were  two  glasses,  one  for  champagne 
and  one  for  water.  But  the  water,  for  the  most  part, 
had  been  thrown  into  the  duck  pond  so  that  each  young 
gentleman  might  utilize  the  empty  vessel  for  more 
champagne.  Signs  of  drunkenness  were  beginning  to 
be  evident.  The  waiters  were  receiving  considerable 
presents  of  money  and  secret  directions  to  keep  par 
ticular  glasses  filled. 

Men  left  their  places  and  carried  their  chairs  to  more 
alluring  neighborhoods.  Little  groups  surrounded  the 
humorists  and  roared  with  laughter  whenever  these 
spoke.  Men  whom  the  champagne  affected  to  serious 
ness  drew  aside  in  pairs,  and  with  heads  nodding  close 
together,  emptied  their  hearts  of  matters  which  for  the 
moment  seemed  of  paramount  importance.  Some 
times  they  sniffled  and  shed  tears. 

One  or  two,  on  mischief  bent,  left  the  dinner,  went 
upstairs  and  for  a  few  disgraceful  minutes  attended  a 
small  dance  to  which  they  had  not  been  invited. 

282 


THE  BEST  MAN 

John  Tombs  upset  his  coffee-cup;  nothing  came  out 
but  ashes.  "Fat"  Randall,  sitting  solemnly  between 
two  empty  chairs,  suddenly  smiled  a  silly  smile  and 
poured  upon  his  own  head  a  whole  cellar  of  salt.  Jack 
Blackwell  rose  unsteadily  and  pounded  upon  the  table 
with  a  gilt-edged  plate  until  the  plate  broke.  Having 
thus  secured  a  sufficiency  of  attention,  he  raised  his 
glass,  so  charged  with  wine  that  it  slopped  over  the  top 
and  ran  over  his  hand,  and  proposed  the  health  of  the 
bride.  The  young  gentlemen  surged  to  their  feet, 
shouting  and  drinking.  Jack  Blackwell  hurled  his 
empty  glass  into  the  duck  pond.  Some  followed  this 
lead;  others  threw  their  glasses  backward  against  the 
panelled  walls  of  the  room;  others  upward  against  the 
frescoed  ceiling.  Some  threw  plates.  One  man  threw 
his  glass  by  mistake  straight  into  "Fat"  Randall's  face. 
It  broke  into  a  thousand  pieces,  but  Randall  was  not 
even  scratched.  One  man,  a  cigar  nine  inches  long  be 
tween  his  teeth,  was  hit  on  the  back  of  the  head  by  a 
plate.  The  cigar  fairly  flew  from  his  mouth  into  the 
duck  pond,  and  the  man  looked  foolishly  after  it  with 
out  the  least  idea  as  to  why  it  had  flown.  Another  man, 
dragging  suddenly  at  a  tablecloth,  stripped  one  whole 
table  of  everything  on  it.  The  red  shade  of  an  over 
turned  candle  caught  fire.  John  Tombs  snatched  a 
coffee-pot  from  a  waiter  and  poured  its  contents  on 
the  conflagration.  Openta,  from  whose  hands  the 

283 


THE  BEST  MAN 

coffee-pot  had  been  snatched,  giggled.  He  was  also 
drunk. 

It  was  noticed  by  some  that  one  of  the  ducks  floated 
belly  up  among  the  flotsam  on  the  surface  of  the  pond. 
A  sliver  of  glass  had  pierced  its  brain.  The  other  every 
now  and  then  reared  itself,  and,  flapping  desperately, 
tried  to  escape  on  clipped  wings. 

The  dinner  began  to  break  up.  The  young  gentle 
men  left  the  room  by  twos  and  threes.  Downstairs  in 
the  main  hall  of  the  restaurant  there  was  a  great  putting 
on  of  hats  and  coats;  many  of  the  latter  were  lined  with 
expensive  fur.  Presents  of  money  were  freely  taken  by 
the  boys  in  charge  of  the  hats  and  coats.  Electric  han 
soms  received  drunken  cargoes  on  more  pleasure  bent. 
And,  like  the  geese  in  the  song, 

One  flew  east  and  one  flew  west, 
And  one  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest. 

It  was  a  great  night  for  roulette  wheels;  a  great  night 
for  young  women  who  had  plenty  of  time  but  no  money. 

But  the  future  groom  came  back  to  the  dining-room. 
He  was  a  big  man  and,  with  his  immense  fur-lined  coat 
and  high  silk  hat,  looked  positively  mountainous.  His 
face  was  red  and  shiny  with  hard  drinking,  but  he  was 
not  drunk. 

"Where's  the  other  waiter?"  he  said,  in  a  loud,  as 
sured  voice.  "I've  got  something  for  all  of  you." 

284 


THE  BEST  MAN 

A  swinging  door  was  pushed  open,  and  voices  began 
to  call  for  Openta  to  come  back. . 

Openta,  very  unsteady  on  his  feet  and  sure  of  only 
one  thing — that  he  wanted  to  go  home — had  just 
reached  the  top  of  a  flight  of  stairs  leading  to  a  lower 
corridor,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  room  in  which  the 
waiters  deposited  their  coats  and  hats.  Hearing  his 
name  called  he  turned,  slipped  and  fell  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs. 

Those  in  the  dining-room  heard  the  sounds  of  the 
fall,  mingled  with  a  sudden  burst  of  foolish  laughter, 
and  then  a  deep  groan.  Afterward  there  was  silence. 

The  groom  hurried,  with  the  others,  to  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs. 

Openta  had  already  picked  himself  up.  His  face  was 
white  and  drawn  with  pain,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  have 
received  any  serious  injury.  He  kept  feeling  the  small 
of  his  back  with  one  hand,  and  taking  quick,  sniffling 
breaths. 

"He's  all  right,"  said  the  groom,  and  he  began  to 
distribute  greenbacks  among  the  waiters.  They  bowed 
and  scraped  and  gave  thanks — even  the  gloomy  Odes- 
kalki.  The  groom  looked  up  the  flight  of  stairs  by 
which  he  had  just  descended. 

"Can  I  get  out  of  here  without  going  back  up  those 
stairs?"  he  said. 

"This  way,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  waiters,  and  he 
285 


THE  BEST  MAN 

walked  off,  followed  by  the  groom,  who  muttered  a 
careless  good-night  as  he  left. 

The  others,  all  but  Odeskalki  and  Openta,  hurried 
back  to  the  dining-room  for  the  remnants  of  the 
feast. 

"What  a  stupid  fellow  you  are,"  said  Odeskalki, 
"to  get  drunk  and  fall  downstairs.  You  might  have 
broken  your  neck.  Come,  let  us  go." 

"I  have  hurt  my  back,"  said  Openta. 

"Where?"  said  Odeskalki  brutally.  He  prodded 
Openta's  spine  with  his  thumb.  Tears  of  anguish  ran 
out  of  Openta's  eyes  and  he  staggered. 

"Curse  you!"  he  cried. 

Odeskalki  was  taken  aback  for  a  moment.  "Don't 
be  a  fool,  little  man,"  he  said  presently.  "Don't  rail 
at  those  who  are  trying  to  help  you.  A  nice  figure 
you'll  cut  at  your  bride's  bedside,  drunk  and  snivelling. 
Pull  yourself  together,  and  don't  curse  your  betters." 

"I  am  sorry  for  what  I  said,  Odeskalki,"  said  Openta 
meekly;  "I  didn't  mean  it.  But  you  shouldn't  have 
punched  me  so  hard." 

"Punched  you,"  said  Odeskalki  scornfully.  "/  punch 
you!  Man,  if  I  punched  you  you'd  know  it.  My  fist 
would  come  out  the  other  side."  He  doubled  up  his 
fist  and  fell  to  admiring  its  bony  outline. 

Openta  went  up  town  by  the  Third  Avenue  Elevated 
and  got  out  at  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street; 

286 


THE  BEST  MAN 

but  his  back  hurt  him  so  that  he  could  hardly  walk, 
and  very  often  he  had  to  stop  and  rest.  The  pain  made 
him  cold  and  sober. 

Olenka  was  sound  asleep.  Openta  stood  looking  at 
her  until  the  match  which  he  had  lighted  burned  his 
fingers.  Then,  walking  on  tiptoe,  he  went  into  the 
other  room,  and,  having  taken  off  his  coat  and  trousers 
and  folded  them  carefully,  he  crept  into  bed  with  his 
father.  All  night  the  old  man  slept  and  snored.  All 
night  the  young  man  lay  awake  and  moaned. 


Ill 


The  next  morning  Odeskalki  called  to  find  out  what 
had  become  of  Orloff  Openta.  The  invalid  was  asleep. 
Old  man  Openta  and  Olenka  took  Odeskalki  to  the 
furthest  corner  of  the  room  and  conversed  with  him  in 
low  tones. 

"I  woge  ub  ad  he  bas  id  by  bed,"  said  the  old  man. 

"He  fell  down  a  flight  of  stairs,"  said  Odeskalki, 
"and  injured  his  spine.  I  hope  that  it  is  nothing,  but 
injuries  to  the  spine  are  not  to  be  laughed  at.  He  had 
just  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs  when  we  called  him 
to  come  back  and  receive  a  present  of  money.  He 
must  have  slipped  in  turning.  We  heard  him  fall,  and 
found  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  He  was  on  his 
feet,  but  evidently  suffering.  Just  think,  if  he  hadn't 

287 


THE  BEST  MAN 

been  called  back  to  get  the  present  this  would  not  have 
happened." 

"We  have  drawn  the  bed  close  to  the  stove,"  said 
Olenka,  "because  he  complains  that  his  legs  are  cold." 

"Id  is  doo  bad,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Have  you  consulted  a  physician?"  asked  Odes- 
kalki. 

"Yes,"  said  Olenka,  "and  he  said  that  Orloff  must 
lie  still  for  a  long  time." 

"Has  he  any  appetite?" 

"Doe,"  said  the  old  man. 

Orloff  Openta  stirred  in  his  bed  and  awoke.  "Are 
you  there,  Olenka?"  he  said. 

Olenka  flew  to  the  bedside.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "and 
here  is  Mr.  Odeskalki  to  ask  after  you." 

"That  is  very  friendly  of  him,"  said  Openta.  "I 
hope  you  are  well,  Odeskalki." 

Odeskalki  approached  the  bed  in  a  slow  and  dignified 
manner.  "I  am  well,"  he  said,  "but  it  seems  that  you 
are  not  well,  my  friend.  Do  you  feel  any  pain?" 

"No,"  said  Openta,  "I  do  not  think  that  I  feel  any 
pain,  but  my  legs  do  not  seem  to  get  warm." 

Olenka,  blushing  a  little,  slipped  her  hand  under  the 
bedclothes  and  felt  of  his  feet. 

"They  are  like  ice,"  she  said.  "Would  you  care  to 
feel  for  yourself?" 

Odeskalki  felt  a  certain  repugnance  in  accepting  this 
288 


THE  BEST  MAN 

invitation;  nevertheless  he  felt  of  Openta's  feet  and 
satisfied  himself  that  they  were  very  cold. 

"Can  you  move  your  legs ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Openta.     "  But  if  I  do  it  hurts  my  back." 

"  Hum,"  said  Odeskalki,  and  looked  very  wise. 

"What  worries  me,"  said  Openta,  "is  that  all  our 
savings  will  be  spent,  and  that  perhaps  I  shall  not  be 
well  enough  to  work  even  then." 

"But  I  shall  find  something  to  do,"  said  Olenka; 
"and,  besides,  we  agreed  not  to  speak  of  that.  Could 
you  drink  a  cup  of  soup?" 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  said  Openta.  "I  think  I  feel  a 
draught" 

"No,"  said  Odeskalki,  "there  is  no  draught  in  the 
room.  Both  windows  and  both  doors  are  shut." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Openta,  "one  of  the  windows  in 
Olenka's  room  is  open,  and  the  door  does  not  fit  tightly 
enough  to  keep  the  cold  air  out." 

"I  will  see,"  said  Odeskalki. 

Openta  raised  himself  in  protest,  and  sank  back  with 
a  little  gasp.  Odeskalki  returned  in  a  moment. 

"No,"  he  said,  "the  windows  are  closed.  Your 
room  is  more  cheerful  than  this,  Mrs.  Openta.  There 
is  an  outlook." 

"  Bud  doe  stobe,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Haf  you  purned  your  pridges  to-day?"  said  Odes 
kalki,  giving  an  execrable  imitation  of  the  old  man's 

289 


THE  BEST  MAN 

English.  And  he  added  in  Polish:  "Some  day  you 
will  be  setting  the  house  on  fire." 

When  Odeskalki's  back  was  turned  the  old  man 
made  a  series  of  faces  at  him,  indicative  of  scorn  and 
sarcasm. 

Odeskalki  laid  his  hand  on  Openta's  pillow  and 
patted  it  lightly. 

"It  is  your  duty  to  get  well/'  he  said.  "I  must  go 
now,  but  I  will  come  every  day,  if  possible,  to  inquire 
about  you.  Mrs.  Openta,  will  you  speak  with  me  a 
moment?" 

She  went  with  him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  closing 
the  door  behind  her. 

"Do  you  think  he  is  seriously  ill  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Odeskalki,  "but  I  am  afraid 
so.  What  I  want  to  say  is  this.  Do  not  hesitate  to 
call  on  me  if  you  run  short  of  money.  I  have  had  a 
good  position  for  a  long  time  and  I  have  saved  nearly 
a  thousand  dollars.  There  is  no  one  dependent  on  me. 
Furthermore,  it  would  be  a  pleasure  for  me  to  do  you 
a  good  turn.  I  am,  it  is  true,  a  taciturn  fell  ow,  but  not 
altogether  bad.  It  may  be  that  I  can  be  of  help  in 
other  ways.  I  will  come  again  to-morrow.  But  you 
must  not  confine  yourself  entirely  to  the  house.  Per 
haps  I  will  make  you  go  for  a  walk  with  me.  Is  it 
permitted?" 

He  had  taken  her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  If 
290 


THE  BEST  MAN 

he  kissed  it  with  more  ardor  than  mere  friendship  per 
mits,  Olenka  did  not  know.  She  was  very  grateful  to 
him  for  his  offers  of  help  and  for  the  kind  tone  which 
he  had  adopted. 

"How  I  have  misjudged  this  man!"  she  thought. 

Openta  was  waiting  her  return  with  that  greedy 
eagerness  for  attention  so  habitual  to  novices  in  suffering. 

"But  what  did  he  say  to  you?"  he  asked  almost 
querulously. 

"He  spoke  altogether  kindly,"  said  Olenka,  "offering 
help,  and  even  a  loan  if  necessary.  I  tell  you  he  does 
away  with  that  scowling  habit  of  his  when  people  are 
in  trouble." 

"Didn't  I  always  tell  you  he  was  a  good  fellow  at 
bottom?"  said  Openta. 

"  I  doe'd  lige  hib,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had  been 
dozing. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door,  and  almost  imme 
diately  it  was  opened  and  Odeskalki  reappeared. 

"Mrs.  Openta,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  to  hesitate  to 
send  for  me  in  case  of  need.  The  best  way  would  be 
to  send  me  a  telegram  direct  to  Sherry's.  I  will  always 
leave  word  with  the  head  waiter  where  I  am  to  be  found. 
Good-bye  again.  I  shall  be  late;  but  I  do  not  mind 
that." 

"Really  a  sterling  fellow,"  said  Openta.  "Didn't  I 
always  tell  you  so?" 

291 


THE  BEST  MAN 

"I  doe'd  lige  hib,"  said  the  old  man. 

Odeskalki  came  nearly  every  day.  For  the  most 
part  he  wore -a  smiling  mask.  Sometimes  he  insisted  on 
taking  Olenka  for  a  walk.  Sometimes  he  read  the 
papers  to  Openta  and  the  old  man.  Once  he  brought 
a  friend  who  played  upon  the  violin  with  real  genius. 
Openta  was  delighted,  but  the  friend  made  eyes  at 
Olenka  and  Odeskalki  would  not  permit  the  visit  to 
be  repeated.  Meanwhile  Openta  got  a  little  better, 
but  he  could  not  use  his  legs  without  suffering  torment, 
and  his  savings  were  nearly  all  gone.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  doctor  whom  they  had  called  in  did  nothing 
for  him.  He  came  often,  felt  of  Openta's  legs  and 
back,  nodded  his  head,  pocketed  his  fee  and  went  away. 

The  weather  was  bitterly  cold;  provisions  were  high, 
and  more  wood  went  up  the  stove  chimney  in  the  form 
of  smoke  than  Olenka  cared  to  think  about.  But 
through  it  all  she  preserved  her  charm,  her  childishness, 
her  cheerfulness  and  her  red  cheeks.  Often  she  was 
possessed  of  a  real  gayety,  such  as  might  be  expected  in 
one  whose  troubles  had  suddenly  been  brought  to  an 
end.  At  such  times  her  laughter  sounded  in  the  sick 
room  like  sleigh  bells  and  she  would  not  make  serious 
answers  to  questions.  Sometimes  she  would  mimic  old 
man  Openta  and  talk  as  if  she  had  a  dreadful  cold  in 
the  head.  But  Odeskalki,  if  he  had  wished,  could 
have  told  of  moments,  carefully  screened  from  the 

292 


THE  BEST  MAN 

Opentas,  when  the  anxiety  which  was  torturing  her 
came  to  the  surface — sometimes  as  a  fleeting  expres 
sion  of  woe,  sometimes  in  the  form  of  tears.  Once,  as 
they  were  mounting  the  last  flight  of  stairs,  having 
returned  from  a  short  walk,  she  caught  hold  of  the 
banister  and  began  to  sob.  On  that  occasion  Odes- 
kalki  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  to  his  breast 
until  she  panted  for  breath.  When  she  had  stopped 
sobbing  she  freed  herself  from  him,  but  gently  and  not 
as  one  who  has  taken  offence.  She  seemed  rather  pre 
occupied  and  not  concerned  with  what  had  happened. 

On  another  occasion  Olenka  complained  that  she 
felt  ill  and  dizzy.  She  let  Odeskalki  put  his  arm  around 
her  for  support  and  half  carry  her  up  the  stairs.  At  the 
second  landing  she  seemed  to  lose  consciousness  for  a 
moment,  causing  Odeskalki  untold  alarm. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  said,  "it  is  often  so.  I  have  a 
little  something  the  matter  with  my  heart.  Sometimes 
it  seems  as  if  it  were  too  big,  and  then  I  become  dizzy 
and  am  ready  to  faint." 

"But  you  should  see  a  doctor  and  take  a  prescrip 
tion." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Olenka,  "it  is  nothing;  it  does  not 
trouble  me." 

That  same  day  Odeskalki  informed  the  Opentas 
that  in  the  future  he  would  have  to  work  on  the  day 
shift  and  that  it  would  not  be  possible  for  him  always 

293 


THE  BEST  MAN 

to  come  up  early  enough  in  the  evening  to  find  them 
awake. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  Openta,  "that  your  lodging  is 
not  in  the  neighborhood  somewhere." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Odeskalki,  "why  I  do  not  live 
with  you  and  bear  a  portion  of  the  expenses.  We  could 
put  another  bed  in  this  room.  Furthermore,  it  is  very 
lonely  living  by  myself.  But  do  not  invite  me  unless 
you  wish." 

Two  nights  later  Stanislas  Odeskalki  came  for  the 
first  time  to  pass  the  night  under  the  same  roof  which 
covered  Olenka,  and  old  man  Openta  whispered  to  his 
son: 

"The  roob  bill  be  warber.     Bud  I  doe'd  lige  hib." 


IV 


On  a  certain  evening,  when  old  man  Openta  was 
sleeping  heavily,  being  on  the  outside  of  his  son's  bed, 
Odeskalki  spoke  to  the  young  Opentas  of  matters  which 
were  troubling  him. 

"Will  either  of  you  deny,"  he  said,  "that  you  reached 
the  end  of  your  resources  two  days  ago  and  that  I  am 
bearing  all  the  expenses?" 

Neither  Orloff  nor  his  wife  was  able  to  deny  this. 

"It  is  nothing,"  continued  Odeskalki.  "I  ask  noth 
ing  in  return.  Let  things  be  as  they  are  until  Orloff  is 

294 


THE  BEST  MAN 

well.  But  there  is  one  thing  which  I  cannot  endure 
much  longer.  And  that  is  the  constant  hostility  which 
is  shown  me  by  Orloff's  father.  He  who,  after  all,  is 
nothing  but  a  burden,  constantly  shows  his  teeth  at  me 
and  passes  sarcasms.  Let  him  only  show  a  proper 
gratitude,  and  I  will  not  complain.  But  he  does  noth 
ing  but  sleep,  or  air  his  English,  or  demand  that  more 
wood  be  put  in  the  stove.  He  is  a  trial  not  easily 
borne." 

Orloff  and  Olenka  knew  that  there  was  much  truth 
in  what  their  benefactor  had  said.  Old  man  Openta 
hated  Odeskalki  and  showed  his  teeth  at  him  whenever 
there  was  opportunity. 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  have  noticed,"  said  Openta. 
"  But  I  will  speak  to  him  myself.  He  does  not  realize, 
perhaps,  that  he  is  living  at  your  expense.  Further 
more,  father  is  old  and  not  very  strong  in  his  head.  It 
is  better  to  laugh  at  his  sarcasms.  But  I  will  speak  to 
him,  and  after  this  everything  will  be  better." 

Consternation  seized  even  Odeskalki  when  at  this 
point  it  was  noticed  that  the  old  man  had  opened  his 
eyes.  He  scowled  malignantly  at  Odeskalki,  and  said 
shrilly : 

"Id  bill  dod  be  pedder.     I  was  dod  sleebig." 

He  rose,  muttering  to  himself,  took  his  overcoat 
from  the  peg  where  it  was  hanging  and  began  to  put 
it  on. 

295 


THE  BEST  MAN 

"I  bill  dod  gub  bag,"  he  said;  "I  bill  dod  gub  bag. 
I  ab  dod  wanded." 

Olenka  tried  to  hold  him,  out  he  shook  her  off  an 
grily  and  made  for  the  door.  She  threw  her  arms  about 
him  a  second  time,  but  he  turned  and  struck  her  in 
the  face  and  on  the  breast  with  his  fists.  Odeskalki 
rushed  between  them  and  hurled  the  old  man  aside. 

"But  for  God's  sake  let  him  go,"  he  cried.  "He  will 
come  back  soon  enough.  We  are  not  going  to  lose  him 
so  easily.  It  is  cold  out,  and  he  will  soon  be  hankering 
for  the  stove." 

"  I  bill  dod  gub  bag,"  shouted  the  old  man. 

He  tore  open  the  door  and  began  to  shuffle  down  the 
stairs.  Openta  and  Odeskalki  heard  him  burst  into  a 
storm  of  weeping,  but  Olenka  did  not  hear  him,  for 
she  was  weeping  on  her  own  account.  Odeskalki  closed 
the  door. 

"Go  into  your  room,"  he  said  to  Olenka,  "and  put 
cold  water  on  your  face — "  He  hesitated  and  turned 
to  Openta.  "I  will  just  go  and  see  if  she  is  hurt,"  he 
said. 

Olenka  poured  water  into  the  basin  on  her  wash- 
stand,  but  for  the  moment  she  was  using  it  only  as  a 
receptacle  for  her  tears. 

"  Don't  cry,"  said  Odeskalki  gently.  He  took  her  by 
the  shoulders  and  turned  her  so  that  she  faced  him. 
"Your  cheek  is  bruised,"  he  said.  "But  that  is  a 

296 


THE  BEST  MAN 

trifle.  Did  he  hurt  you  when  he  hit  you  here?"  He 
touched  her  breast  lightly  with  his  hand.  She  did  not 
answer.  And  Odeskalki  began  to  finger  the  third 
button  of  her  dress.  But  there  must  have  been  some 
spark  of  good  in  the  man,  for  he  suddenly  drew  back 
from  her. 

Olenka's  tears  ceased. 

"I  was  frightened  only,"  she  said. 

"If  he  had  not  been  an  old  man,"  said  Odeskalki, 
"I  would  have  struck  him  dead.  You  do  not  feel  any 
pain?" 

"No,  but  everything  is  going  round." 

Odeskalki  caught  her  as  she  fell  and  carried  her  to 
the  bed.  He  laid  her  on  it  and  kissed  her  unresisting 
mouth  hungrily.  Then  he  brought  cold  water  and 
began  to  bathe  her  temples. 

Meanwhile  Openta  had  turned  his  head  so  that  he 
could  see  the  door  leading  into  his  wife's  room. 

"He  ought  not  to  have  closed  the  door,"  he  said 
querulously.  "He  ought  to  come  back  and  tell  me  if 
she  is  hurt." 

In  a  few  moments  anxiety  for  Olenka  began  to  tor 
ment  him. 

"Maybe  father  really  hurt  her,"  he  said. 

Then  he  began  to  call  for  Odeskalki,  at  first  in  a  low 
tone,  then  more  loudly. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened  and  Odeskaiki,  look- 
297 


THE  BEST  MAN 

ing  like  a  man  on  fire  with  anger,  appeared  in  the 
frame. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  scream  so,"  he  cried  angrily. 
"Mrs.  Openta  has  fainted.  I  am  doing  what  I  can." 

He  disappeared,  slamming  the  door. 

Half  an  hour  passed.  Orloff  Openta  began  to  cry. 
Another  half-hour  passed.  He  got  out  of  bed  and  crept 
to  the  door,  for  he  could  not  stand.  He  reached  the 
knob,  turned  it  and  pushed.  The  door  did  not  open. 
Strength  came  to  him.  He  stood  and  beat  upon  the 
door  with  his  fists  and  hurled  his  light  body  against  it 
again  and  again.  In  his  frenzy  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  in  order  to  open  the  door  he  should  have  pulled 
and  not  pushed. 

He  desisted  after  a  while  and  leaned  wearily  against 
the  door.  It  was  then  that  his  father,  slinking  shame 
facedly  back,  found  him. 

"We  must  go,"  said  Openta  quietly.  "They  are  in 
there.  They  have  been  in  there  for  a  long  time.  We 
are  not  wanted  here.  Help  me  put  on  my  clothes." 

"Bud  you  gad  walg." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can  walk." 

Old  man  Openta  helped  his  son  down  one  flight  of 
stairs.  Then  he  said: 

"Waid  for  be.     I  hab  begodden  subthig." 

He  was  gone  quite  a  long  time.  And  when  he  re 
turned  he  carried  the  key  of  the  outer  door  in  his  hand. 

298 


THE  BEST  MAN 

When  they  reached  the  street  he  was  still  carrying  it. 
Coming  to  a  drain  opening  he  dropped  the  key  into  it. 

"I  hab  logged  theb  id,"  he  said,  "ad  embdied  the 
stobe.  Loog!" 

The  windows  of  the  room  which  they  had  quitted 
glowed  in  the  night  like  coals.  Openta  fell  face  down 
ward  in  the  gutter. 

V 

"Her  heart  must  have  been  weak,"  thought  Odes- 
kalki,  after  he  had  labored  vainly  for  nearly  an  hour 
and  a  half  to  bring  Olenka  to.  "She  is  certainly  dead. 
I  must  tell  Openta." 

He  pushed  open  the  door  and  sprang  back  from  a 
storm  of  flames.  The  door  closed  of  itself  with  a  bang. 
Odeskalki  ran  to  the  window,  threw  it  open  and  looked 
out,  right,  left,  down  and  up.  There  was  nothing  for 
it,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  but  to  jump,  unless 
he  could  make  a  rope  out  of  Olenka's  bedding.  He 
rolled  her  body  unceremoniously  to  the  floor,  and  began 
to  tear  the  bedding  into  broad  strips.  He  worked  with 
frantic  haste,  but  not  so  fast  as  the  fire  in  the  next  room. 
The  intervening  door  sprang  inward  from  its  hinges 
as  if  it  had  been  hit  by  a  locomotive.  Flame  and 
smoke  poured  through  the  opening.  Cries  began  to 
rise  from  the  street  below  and  the  reverberations  of 
fire-gongs.  Odeskalki  thrust  himself  half  out  of  the 

299 


THE  BEST  MAN 

window  and  screamed  for  help.  In  that  moment  of 
agony  and  fear  he  saw,  among  the  upturned  faces  in 
the  street,  the  face  of  old  man  Openta  convulsed  with 
ghastly  merriment.  And  the  old  man's  shrill  voice  was 
borne  up  to  him,  clarion  and  horrible  like  the  yell  of  a 
ghoul. 

"I  haf  purned  your  pridges  behind  you,  Odeskalki!" 
Odeskalki  sprang  from  the  window.  The  cries  and 
the  reverberations  of  the  fire-bells  seemed  to  combine 
in  one  awful  rushing  shudder.  The  crowd  fought 
cruelly  to  get  back  from  the  place  where  Odeskalki 
would  land.  Old  man  Openta  did  not  move.  He  did 
not  seem  to  realize  his  danger.  He  stood  as  if  rooted, 
with  upturned,  malevolently  smiling  face. 

It  seemed  to  those  who  saw  the  catastrophe  that  the 
old  man  was  literally  driven  into  the  street  to  the  head, 
as  a  carpenter  drives  a  nail  into  a  shingle  with  one  blow 
of  his  hammer. 

It  happened  that  the  train  for  which  Orloff  Openta 
was  waiting  at  the  New  York  Central's  One  Hundred 
and  Twenty-fifth  Street  station  was  carrying  two  young 
people  to  Greenwich  on  the  first  stage  of  their  honey 
moon.  It  was  curious  that  the  bridegroom  was  the 
very  man  whose  generosity  had  been  the  cause  of 
Openta's  fall  and  of  all  his  subsequent  disasters.  If 
the  bridegroom  had  known  this  he  might  have  been 

300 


THE  BEST  MAN 

moved  to  tears,  for  he  was  big  and  gentle  and  kind. 
But  he  did  not  know  it,  and  Openta  did  not  give  it  a 
thought.  He  was  waiting  on  the  very  edge  of  the  plat 
form  for  the  train.  He  did  not  know  where  he  had 
passed  the  night  or  the  morning  nor  how  he  had  come 
to  the  edge  of  the  platform.  He  considered  to  have 
gotten  there  as  the  only  piece  of  good  luck  that  he 
had  ever  had.  That  was  all.  .  .  . 
"Heavens!"  cried  the  bride.  "What's  happened?" 
"You  wait  here,  dear,  and  I'll  go  and  find  out." 
The  bridegroom  hurried  to  the  end  of  the  car  and 
looked  out.  He  saw  the  body  of  a  man,  almost  torn  in 
two,  being  dragged  from  under  the  train.  The  sight 
made  him  feel  sick  all  over.  But  he  turned  and  went 
back  to  the  bride,  forcing  a  smile  to  his  face. 

"Was  some  one  hurt?"  said  the  bride,  her  face  full  of 
concern. 

"No,  dear — a  man  got  knocked  down — that's  all. 
They — he  picked  himself  up  and  walked  away  with  a 
silly  smile,  and  everybody  is  1-l-laughing  at  him." 


301 


XI 

THE    CROCODILE 


THE    CROCODILE 

I 

The  first  locality  of  which  I  have  any  recollection  was 
my  father's  library — a  tall,  melancholy  room  devoted 
to  books  and  illusions.  Three  sides  were  of  books, 
sombrely  bound,  reaching  from  the  floor  to  within 
three  feet  of  the  ceiling.  Along  the  shelf,  which  was 
erroneously  supposed  to  protect  the  tops  of  the  top  row 
of  books  from  the  dust  with  which  our  house  abounded, 
were  stationed,  at  precise  intervals,  busts  done  in  plaster 
after  the  antique  and  death-masks.  Beginning  on  the 
left  was  the  fury-haunted  face  of  Orestes;  next  him  the 
lachrymose  features  of  Niobe;  followed  her  Medusa, 
crowned  with  serpents.  The  rest  were  death-masks — 
Napoleon,  Washington,  Voltaire,  and  my  father's  father. 
The  prevailing  dust,  settled  thick  upon  the  heads  of 
these  grim  images,  lent  them  the  venerable  illusion  of 
gray  hair.  The  three  walls  of  books  were  each  pierced 
by  a  long,  narrow  window,  for  the  room  was  an  exten 
sion  from  the  main  block  of  the  house,  but  over  two  of 
these  the  shutters  were  opaquely  closed  in  winter  and 

305 


THE  CROCODILE 

summer.  The  third  window,  however,  was  allowed  to 
extend  whatever  beneficence  of  light  it  could  to  the 
dismal  and  musty  interior.  A  person  of  sharp  sight, 
sitting  at  the  black  oak  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
might,  on  a  fine  day,  have  seen  clearly  enough  to  write 
on  very  white  paper  with  very  black  ink,  or  to  read  out 
of  a  large-typed  book.  Through  the  fourth  wall  a 
door,  nearly  always  closed,  led  into  the  main  hall, 
which,  like  the  library  itself,  was  a  tall  and  melancholy 
place  of  twilight  and  illusions.  When  my  poor  mother 
died,  in  giving  me  birth,  she  was  laid  out  in  the  library 
and  buried  from  the  hall.  Consequently,  according  to 
old-fashioned  custom,  these  apartments  were  held 
sacred  to  her  memory  rather  than  other  portions  of  the 
house  in  which  she  had  enjoyed  the  more  fortunate 
phases  of  life  and  happiness.  The  room  in  which  my 
mother  had  actually  died  was  never  entered  by  any  one 
save  my  father.  Its  door  was  double  locked,  like  that  of 
our  family  vault  in  the  damp  hollow  among  the  syca 
mores. 

The  first  thing  that  I  remember  was  that  I  had  had 
a  mother  who  had  died  and  been  buried.  The  second, 
that  I  had  a  father  with  a  white  face  and  black  clothes 
and  noiseless  feet,  whose  duty  in  life  was  to  shut  doors, 
pull  down  window  shades,  and  mourn  for  my  mother. 
The  third  was  a  carved  wooden  box,  situated  in  the 
exact  centre  of  the  oak  table  in  the  library,  which  con- 

306 


THE  CROCODILE 

tained  a  scroll  of  stained  paper  covered  with  curious 
characters,  and  a  small  but  miraculously  preserved 
crocodile.  I  was  never  allowed  to  touch  the  scroll  or 
the  crocodile,  but  in  his  lenient  moods,  which  were  few 
and  touched  with  heartrending  melancholy,  my  father 
would  set  the  box  open  upon  a  convenient  chair  and 
allow  me  to  peer  my  heart  out  at  its  mysterious  contents. 
The  crocodile,  my  father  sometimes  told  me,  was  an 
Egyptian  charm  which  was  supposed  to  bring  mis 
fortune  upon  its  possessor.  "But  I  let  it  stay  on  my 
table,"  he  would  say,  "because  in  the  first  place  I  am 
without  superstition,  and  in  the  second  because  I  am 
far  distant  from  the  longest  and  wildest  reach  of  mis 
fortune.  When  I  lost  your  mother  I  lost  all.  Ay!  but 
she  was  bonny,  my  boy — bonny!"  It  was  very  sad  to 
hear  him  run  on  about  the  bonniness  of  my  mother, 
and  old  Ann,  my  quondam  nurse,  has  told  me  how  at 
the  funeral  he  stood  for  a  long  time  by  the  casket,  say 
ing  over  and  over,  "Wasn't  she  bonny?  Wasn't  she 
bonny?"  and  followed  her  to  the  vault  among  the 
sycamores  with  the  same  iteration  upon  his  lips. 

It  was  not  until  I  was  near  eight  years  old  that  my 
father  could  bear  the  sight  of  me,  so  much  had  we  been 
divided  by  the  innocent  share  which  I  had  had  in  my 
mother's  death.  But  I  was  not  allowed  to  pass  those 
eight  years  in  ignorance  of  the  results  of  my  being,  or 
of  the  constant  mourning  to  which  my  father  had  de- 

307 


THE  CROCODILE 

voted  the  balance  of  his  days.  I  was  brought  up,  so  to 
speak,  on  my  mother's  death  and  burial.  Another 
child  might  have  been  nurtured  thus  into  a  vivid  con 
trast,  but  I  ran  fluidly  into  the  mould  sober,  and  came 
very  near  to  solidifying.  Death  and  its  ancientry  have 
a  horrible  fascination  for  children.  And  for  me,  wher 
ever  I  turned,  there  was  a  plenitude  of  morbid  sugges 
tion.  Indeed,  our  plantation — held  by  the  family  from 
the  earliest  colonization  of  Georgia,  spread  along  the 
low  shore  of  a  turbid  river  tributary  to  the  Savannah, 
and  dwindled,  partly  by  mismanagement  and  partly  by 
the  non-success  of  the  rebellion,  into  a  sad  fulfilment 
of  its  bright  colonial  promise — was  itself  moribund.  In 
the  swamps,  still  showing  traces  of  the  dikes,  which  had 
once  divided  it  into  quadrilaterals,  the  rice  which  had 
been  our  chief  source  of  income  no  longer  flourished. 
The  slave  quarters,  a  long  double  row  of  diminutive 
brick  cubes,  each  with  one  chimney,  one  door,  and  one 
window  at  the  side  of  the  door — such  dwellings  as  chil 
dren  draw  painfully  on  slates — still  standing,  for  the 
most  part,  damp  and  silent,  showed  that  the  labor 
which  had  made  the  rice  profitable  was  also  a  thing  of 
other  days.  The  house  itself,  a  vastly  tall  block  of 
burned  bricks,  laid  side  by  side  instead  of  end  to  end, 
as  in  modern  building,  stood  on  a  slight  rise  of  ground 
with  its  back  to  the  river,  among  lofty  and  rugged  red 
oaks,  rotten  throughout  their  tops  with  mistletoe.  An 

308 


THE  CROCODILE 

avenue,  roughened  by  disuse  into  a  going  worse  than 
that  of  a  lumber  road,  nearly  a  mile  long,  straight  as 
justice,  shaded  by  a  double  row  of  enormous  live  oaks, 
choked  and  strangled  with  plumes  and  beards  of  gray 
moss,  led  from  the  county  road  through  the  scant  cot 
ton  fields  and  strawberry  fields  to  the  circle  in  front 
of  the  house.  I  used  to  fancy,  and  I  think  Bluebeard's 
closet  lent  me  the  notion,  that  the  moss  in  the  live  oaks 
was  the  hair  of  unfortunate  princesses  turned  gray 
by  suffering  and  hung  among  the  trees  in  wanton  and 
cruel  ostentation  by  their  enemies. 

Nothing  but  a  happy  and  cheerful  woman,  a  good 
housewife,  ready-tongued  and  loving,  could  have  lent 
a  touch  of  home  to  our  melancholy  disestablishment. 
Women  we  had  in  the  house,  two  black  and  ancient 
negresses,  rheumatic  and  complaining,  one  to  cook  and 
one  to  make  the  beds,  and  old  Ann,  my  mother's  Scotch 
nurse,  a  hard,  rickety  female,  whose  mind,  voice,  and 
memory  were  pitched  in  the  minor  key.  We  had  a 
horse,  no  mean  animal,  for  my  father  had  known  and 
loved  horses  before  his  misfortune,  but  ugly  and  un 
kempt,  and  it  was  the  duty  of  an  old  negro  named  Ec- 
clesiastes,  the  one  lively  influence  about  the  place,  to 
look  after  the  interests  of  this  little-used  creature.  My 
father  and  myself  completed  the  disquieting  group  of 
living  things.  Concerning  things  inanimate,  we  had 
enough  to  eat,  enough  to  wear,  and  enough  to  read. 

309 


THE  CROCODILE 

And  the  clothes  of  all  of  us  were  black.  Until  I  was 
twelve  years  old  I  believed  fervently  that  to  mourn  all 
his  life  long  for  dead  wives  and  mothers  was  the  whole 
end  and  destiny  of  man..  In  my  twelfth  year,  how 
ever,  my  uncle  Richard,  a  florid,  affectionate,  and  testy 
sportsman,  paid  us  a  visit  on  matters  connected  with 
the  mismanagement  of  the  estate.  He  stayed  three 
days.  On  the  first  he  shot  duck,  on  the  second  quail; 
on  the  morning  of  the  third  he  talked  with  my  father  in 
the  library;  in  the  afternoon  he  took  me  for  a  walk. 
In  the  evening  he  went  away  and  I  never  saw  him  again. 

"Richard,"  he  had  said,  for  I  had  been  given  his 
name,  "  I  want  to  see  the  vault  before  I  go.  I  haven't 
seen  it  since  your  mother  was  buried." 

It  was  a  warm,  bright,  still  December  day,  the  day 
before  Christmas,  and  my  uncle  seated  himself  non 
chalantly  on  the  low  wall  which  surrounded  the  vault, 
his  knees  crossed,  his  mouth  closed  on  a  big  cigar,  and 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  "legended  door." 

"People  who  go  into  that  place  in  boxes,"  he  said, 
"never  come  out.  Has  that  ever  occurred  to  you, 
Richard?" 

I  said  that  it  had. 

"You  never  saw  your  mother,  my  boy,"  he  went  on, 
"but  you  wear  mourning  for  her." 

"It  seems  to  me  almost  as  if  I  had  known  her,"  I 

said,  "because " 

310 


THE  CROCODILE 

"Yes,"  cut  in  my  uncle,  "your  father  has  kept  her 
memory  alive.  He  has  neglected  everything  else  in 
order  to  do  that.  Now  tell — what  was  your  mother 
like?" 

I  hesitated,  and  said  finally,  "She  was  very  tall  and 
beautiful." 

My  uncle  smiled  grimly. 

"You  would  know  her  then,"  he  said,  "if  you  saw 
her  ?  Answer  me  truthfully,  and  remember  that  other 
women  are  sometimes  tall  and  beautiful." 

I  admitted  a  little  ruefully,  that  I  should  not  know 
my  mother  if  I  saw  her. 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  said  my  uncle,  "and  for  this 
reason,  too;  your  mother  had  an  amusing  little  face, 
but  she  was  neither  beautiful  nor  tall." 

"But—"  I  began. 

"Your  father,"  my  uncle  interrupted,  "has  come  to 
believe  that  his  wife  was  tall  and  beautiful  because  he 
thinks  that  the  idea  of  lifelong  devotion  to  a  memory  is 
tall  and  beautiful.  He  is  a  little  hipped  about  himself, 
my  boy,  and  it  makes  me  rather  sick.  I  will  tell  you 
an  anecdote.  Once  there  was  a  man.  He  met  a  girl. 
For  three  weeks  they  talked  foolishly  about  foolish 
things.  Then  they  were  married.  Nine  months  later  a 
son  was  born  to  them,  and  the  girl  died.  The  man 
mourned  for  her.  At  first  he  mourned  because  he 
missed  her.  Then  because  he  respected  her  mem- 

311 


THE  CROCODILE 

ory.  Then  because  he  liked  to  pose  as  one  ever 
lastingly  unhappy  and  faithful  till  death.  He  made 
everybody  about  him  mourn,  including  the  little  child, 
his  son,  and  finally  he  died  and  was  put  in  the  vault 
with  the  girl,  and  no  one  in  the  world  was  the  better  by 
one  jot  for  any  act  of  the  man's  life.  .  .  .  Let  me  hear 
you  laugh.  .  .  ." 

I  looked  up  at  him,  much  puzzled. 

"Not  at  the  anecdote,"  he  said,  "which  isn't  funny — 
but  just  laugh." 

I  delivered  myself  of  a  soulless  and  conventional  ha- 
ha.  My  uncle  put  back  his  head  and  roared.  At  first  I 
thought  he  must  be  sick,  for  until  that  moment  I  had 
never  heard  any  one  laugh.  I  had  read  of  it  in  books. 

• 

And  as  a  dog  must  have  a  first  lesson  in  digging,  so  a 
child  must  have  a  first  lesson  in  laughing.  My  uncle 
never  stopped.  He  roared  harder  and  louder.  Tears 
ran  down  his  cheeks.  Something  shook  me,  I  did  not 
know  what.  I  heard  a  sound  like  that  which  my  uncle 
was  making,  but  nearer  me  and  more  shrill.  I  felt 
pain  in  my  sides.  My  eyes  became  blurred  and  sting 
ing  wet.  With  these  new  sounds  and  symptoms  came 
strange  mental  changes — a  sudden  knowledge  that  blue 
was  the  best  color  for  the  sky,  heat  the  best  attribute  of 
the  sun,  and  the  act  of  living  delightful.  We  roared 
with  laughter,  my  uncle  and  I,  and  the  legended  door 
of  the  tomb  gave  us  back  hearty  echoes.  In  the  desert 

312 


THE   CROCODILE 

of  my  childhood  I  look  back  upon  that  oasis  of  laughter 
as  the  only  spot  in  which  I  really  lived.  When  my 
uncle  went  away  he  said:  "For  God's  sake,  Dickie,  try 
to  be  cheerful  from  now  on.  I  wish  I  could  take  you 
with  me.  But  your  father  says,  no.  Remember  that 
the  business  of  living  is  with  Life.  And  let  Death  mind 
his  own  business." 

The  door  closed  behind  that  ruddy,  cheerful  man, 
and  left  us  mourners  facing  each  other  across  the  supper 
table. 

"Papa,"  said  I  presently,  "haven't  we  a  picture  of 
mamma?" 

"I  had  them  all  destroyed,"  said  my  father.  "They 
were  not  like  her.  The  last  picture  of  her — "  here  he 
tapped  his  forehead — "will  perish  when  I  am  gone. 
Ay,  but  laddie,"  he  said,  "she  is  vivid  to  me." 

"Tell  me  about  her,  please,  papa,"  I  said. 

"She  was  a  tall,  stately  woman,  laddie,"  he  said, 
"and  bonny — ay,  bonny.  Life  without  her  has 
neither  breadth  nor  thickness — only  length." 

"What  color  was  her  hair?"  I  asked. 

"Boy,"  he  said,  "you  will  choke  me  with  your  ques 
tions.  Her  hair  was  black  like  the  wing  of  a  raven. 
Her  eyes  were  black.  She  moved  in  beauty  like  the 
night." 

Here  my  father  buried  his  white  face  in  his  white 
hands,  and  remained  so,  his  supper  untasted,  for  a 

313 


THE  CROCODILE 

long  time.  Presently  he  looked  up  and  said  with 
pitiful  effort: 

"And  what  did  you  with  your  uncle  Richard?" 

"We  sat  on  the  wall  of  the  vault,"  I  answered,  "and 
laughed." 

It  was  a  part  of  my  father's  melancholy  pose  to  re 
nounce  anger  together  with  all  the  other  passions,  but 
at  the  close  of  my  thoughtless  words  he  sprang  to  his 
feet,  livid. 

"For  that  word,"  he  cried,  "ye  shall  suffer  hel 
lish." 

And  he  dragged  me,  more  dead  than  alive,  to  the 
library.  But  what  form  of  punishment  he  would  have 
inflicted  me  with  I  do  not  know.  For  a  circumstance 
met  with  in  the  library — a  circumstance  trivial  in  it 
self  and,  to  my  mind,  sufficiently  explicable — shook  my 
father  into  a  new  mood.  The  circumstance  was  this: 
that  one  of  the  servants  (doubtless)  had  opened  the 
carved  box  in  the  centre  of  the  table,  taken  out  the 
crocodile,  probably  to  gratify  curiosity  by  a  close  in 
spection,  and  forgotten  to  put  it  back.  But  I  must 
admit  that  at  first  sight  it  looked  as  if  the  inanimate  and 
horrible  little  creature  had  of  its  own  locomotion  thrust 
open  the  box  and  crawled  to  the  edge  of  the  table.  To 
instant  and  searching  inquiry  the  servants  denied  all 
knowledge  of  the  matter,  and  it  remained  a  mystery. 
My  father  dismissed  the  servants  from  the  library,  re- 

314 


THE  CROCODILE 

turned  the  crocodile  to  its  box,  and  remained  for  some 
moments  in  thought.  Then  he  said,  very  gravely  and 
earnestly : 

"The  possession  of  this  dead  reptile  is  supposed  to 
bring  misfortune  upon  a  man.  For  me  that  is  impos 
sible,  for  I  am  beyond  its  longest  and  wildest  reach. 
But  with  you  it  is  different.  Life  has  in  store  for  you 
the  possibility  of  many  misfortunes.  Take  care  that 
you  do  not  bring  them  upon  yourself.  Pray  that  you 
have  not  already  done  so  by  giving  vent  to  ghoulish 
laughter  in  the  presence  of  your  dead  mother.  Now 
take  yourself  off — and  leave  me  with  my  memories." 

That  night  there  was  an  avenue  of  moss-shrouded 
live  oaks  in  dreamland,  down  which  I  fled  before  the 
onrush  of  a  mighty  and  ominous  crocodile. 

The  next  day  was  Christmas,  and  we  resumed  the 
monotony  of  our  stolid  and  gloomy  lives. 


II 


At  eighteen  I  was  a  very  serious  and  colorless  youth. 
It  may  be  that  I  contained  the  seeds  of  a  rational  out 
look  upon  life,  but  so  far  they  had  not  sprouted.  My 
father's  pervading  melancholy  was  more  strong  in  me 
than  red  blood  and  ambition.  With  him  I  looked  for 
ward  to  an  indefinite  extension  of  the  past,  enlivened, 
if  I  may  use  the  paradox,  by  two  demises,  his  and  my 

315 


THE   CROCODILE 

own.  I  had  much  sober  literature  at  my  tongue  tips, 
a  condescending  fondness  for  the  great  poets,  a  normal 
appetite,  two  suits  of  black,  and  a  mouth  stiff  from 
never  having  learned  to  smile.  I  stood  in  stark  igno 
rance  of  life,  and  had  but  the  vaguest  notion  as  to  how 
babies  are  made.  My  father,  preserved  in  melancholy 
as  a  bitter  pickle  in  vinegar,  had  not  aged  or  changed 
an  iota  from  my  earliest  memory  of  him — a  very  white 
man  dressed  in  very  black  cloth. 

One  morning  my  father  sent  from  the  library  for  me, 
and  when  I  had  presented  myself  said  shortly: 

"Your  Uncle  Richard  is  dead.  He  has  left  nothing. 
He  was  guardian,  as  you  may  know,  of  Virginia  Rich 
mond,  the  daughter  of  his  intimate  friend.  She  is 
coming  to  live  with  us.  Let  us  hope  that  she  is  sedate 
and  reasonable.  You  have  never  seen  anything  of 
women.  It  may  be  that  you  will  fall  in  love  with  her. 
You  may  consult  with  me  if  you  do,  though  I  am  no 
longer  in  touch  with  youth.  She  is  to  have  the  south 
spare  room.  You  may  tell  Ann.  She  will  be  here  this 
evening  (my  father  always  spoke  of  the  afternoon  as  the 
evening).  You  may  tell  her  our  ways,  and  our  hatred 
of  noise  and  frivolity.  If  she  is  a  lady  that  will  be  suffi 
cient.  I  think  that  is  all." 

My  father  sighed  and  turned  away  his  face. 

"To  a  large  extent,"  he  said,  "she  has  been  educated 
abroad.  I  hope  that  she  will  not  bore  you.  But  even 

316 


THE  CROCODILE 

if  she  should,  try  to  be  kind  to  her.     I  know  you  will  be 
civil." 

"Shall  you  be  here  to  welcome  her  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  shall  hope  to  be,"  said  my  father.  "But  I  have 
proposed  to  myself  to  gather  some  of  the  early  jasmine 
to —  If  I  am  urgently  needed  for  anything  I  shall  be 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  vault." 

Virginia  Richmond  arrived  in  an  express  wagon,  to 
gether  with  her  three  trunks  and  two  portmanteaus. 
She  sat  by  the  driver,  a  young  negro,  with  whom  she  had 
evidently  established  the  most  talkative  terms,  and  did 
not  wait  for  me  to  help  her  deferentially  to  the  ground, 
but  put  a  slender  a  foot  on  the  wheel,  and  jumped. 

"  It's  good  to  get  here,"  she  said.  "Are  you  Richard  ?" 

"Yes,  Virginia,"  I  said,  and  felt  that  I  was  smiling. 

"Where's  Uncle  John?"  she  said.  "I  call  him 
Uncle  John  because  his  brother  was  my  adopted  uncle 
Richard  always.  And  you're  my  cousin  Richard. 
And  I'm  your  cousin  Virginia,  going  on  seventeen,  very 
talkative,  affectionate  and  hungry.  How  old  are  you  ?" 

"I  shall  be  nineteen  in  April,"  I  said,  "and  my  father 
is  somewhere  about  the  grounds" — I  did  not  like  to  say 
vault — "and  I  will  try  to  find  you  something  edible. 
Are  you  tired?" 

"Do  I  look  tired?" 

"No,"  I  said. 

"How  do  I  look?" 

317 


THE  CROCODILE 

"Why,"  I  said,  "I  think  you  look  very  well.  I — I 
like  your  look." 

A  better  judge  than  I  might  have  liked  it.  She  had 
a  rosy  face  of  curves  and  dimples,  unruly  hair  of  many 
browns,  eyes  that  were  deep  wonders  of  blue,  a  mouth 
of  pearl  and  pomegranate. 

"You,"  she  said,  "look  very  grave — and — yes,  hun 
gry.  But  you  have  nice  eyes  and  a  good  skin,  though 
it  ought  to  be  browner  in  this  climate,  and  if  you  don't 
smile  this  minute  I  shall  scream." 

So  I  smiled,  and  we  went  into  the  house. 

"My  God!  cousin,"  she  cried,  to  my  mind  most  irrev 
erently,  "  can't  you  open  something  and  let  in  the  light  ?" 

"My  father,"  I  said,  "prefers  the  house  dark." 

"Then  let  it  be  dark  when  he's  in  it,"  she  cried, 
"and  bright  when  he's  out  of  it."  And  she  ran  to  a 
window  and  struggled  with  the  shutter.  When  she  had 
flung  that  open  she  braced  herself  for  an  attack  upon 
the  next;  but  I  bowed  to  the  inevitable,  and  saved  her 
from  the  trouble  of  consummating  it.  The  floods  of 
light  let  thus  into  the  hall  and  dining-room  seemed  to 
my  mind,  sophisticated  only  in  dark  things,  a  kind  of 
orgy.  But  Virginia  was  the  more  cheered. 

"Now  a  body  can  eat,"  she  said.  "Ham — hoe-cake 
— Sally  Lunn — is  that  Sally  Lunn?  Oh,  Richard,  I 
have  heard  of  these  things — and  now — "  wherewith  she 
assaulted  the  viands. 

318 


THE  CROCODILE 

"Don't  you  have  ham  in  Europe,  Virginia  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Ham ! "  she  cried.  "  No,  Richard,  we  have  quarters 
of  pig  cut  in  thick  slices — but  meat  like  this  was  never 
grown  on  a  pig.  This,"  and  she  rapped  the  ham  with 
her  fork,  and  laughed  to  hear  the  solid  thump,  "was 
once  part  of  an  angel — a  very  fat  angel." 

"And  you  are  a  cannibal,"  I  said.  It  was  my  first 
gallantry. 

She  gave  me  a  grateful  look. 

"I  had  not  hoped  for  it,"  she  said.  And  for  twenty 
minutes  she  ate  like  a  hungry  man  and  talked  like  a 
running  brook. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "for  the  house.  First  the 
library.  Uncle  Richard  told  me  about  all  the  death 
heads  with  dusty  brows." 

"Did  he  tell  you  about  the  crocodile?"  I  asked. 

"Which  crocodile?"  said  Virginia  gravely. 

"We  have  one  only,"  I  answered.  "And  I'm  afraid 
it  won't  interest  you  very  much.  .  .  .  This  is  the 
library." 

She  was  for  having  the  shutters  open. 

"  My  father  wouldn't  like  it,"  I  said. 

"This  once,"  said  she,  and  I  served  the  whim. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  after  examination,  "it  is  dreadful. 
Show  me  the  crocodile,  and  then  let's  go." 

But  she  was  more  interested  in  the  scroll. 

"It's  Arabic,"  she  said;  "I  can  read  it." 
319 


THE  CROCODILE 

"You  can  read  Arabic?" 

"  Indeed,  yes.  When  papa's  lungs  went  bad  we  lived 
in  Cairo.  He  died  in  Egypt,  you  know.  .  .  .  Listen. 
...  It  says :  '  That  man  who  holds  me  (it's  the  croco 
dile  talking)  in  both  hands,  and  cries  thrice  the  name  of 
Allah,  shall  see  the  face  of  his  beloved  though  she  were 
dead.'" 

"That's  not  our  version,"  I  said.  "We  believe  that 
the  possession  of  that  beast  invites  misfortune." 

"  But  you  don't  read  Arabic,"  said  Virginia.  "  Quick, 
Richard,  take  this  thing  in  your  two  hands  and  call 
'Allah'  three  times — loud,  because  it's  a  long  way  to 
Egypt — why,  the  man  doesn't  want  to  play — 

I  had  taken  the  crocodile  in  my  hands,  but  balked, 
and  I  believe  blushed,  at  the  idea  of  raising  my  voice 
above  the  conversational  pitch  to  further  so  absurd  an 
experiment. 

"Don't  you  want  to  see  the  face  of  your  beloved  ?" 

"I  have  none,"  said  I. 

"  Then  I'd  cry  '  Allah '  till  I  had,"  said  she.  "  Please 
— only  three  times." 

So  I  held  the  crocodile,  looking  very  foolish,  and 
called  three  times  upon  the  prophet.  Then  I  turned  to 
Virginia  and  met  her  eyes.  The  same  thought  oc 
curred  to  us  both,  for  we  looked  away.  It  was  then  that 
my  father  entered. 

"Richard,"  he  said,  "the  shutters " 

320 


THE  CROCODILE 

I  made  haste  to  close  them,  for  I  was  blushing. 

"This  is  Virginia!"  said  my  father.     "Welcome  to 
our  sad  and  lonely  house.     I  thought  just  now  that  I 
heard  some  one  calling  aloud." 

"It  was  Richard,"  said  Virginia.     "This  scroll — 
and  she  translated  to  my  father. 

"Oh,  for  faith  to  believe,"  said  he.  He  took  the 
crocodile  in  his  hands  and  examined  it  with  sad  interest. 
"I  have  just  come  from  her  tomb,  Virginia,"  he  said. 
"I  have  been  laying  jasmine  about  it." 

"Oh,  the  dear  jasmine!"  cried  Virginia.  "It's 
splendidly  out,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  fill  the  house 
with  it. 

"The  house — "  said  my  father  hazily. 

"Don't  you  like  flowers,  Uncle  John?" 

"I  neither  like  nor  dislike  them,"  said  my  father. 

"Then  why,  for  heaven's  sake —  '  but  she  stopped 
herself.  "And  you,  Richard,  don't  you  like  them?" 

"I  have  grown  to  think  of  them,"  said  I,  "if  at  all, 
as  something  odorous  and  sad,  vaguely  connected  with 
funerals." 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Virginia.  "They  are  beautiful  and 
gay,  and  they  are  connected  with  weddings — 

"Don't,"  said  my  father  quickly.  He  was  still  hold 
ing  the  crocodile.  "But  I  do  not  blame  you,  child. 
You  will  soon  learn  our  ways.  Since  our  great  loss  we 
have  kept  very  quiet.  .  .  .  Ay,  my  dear,  but  you 

321 


THE  CROCODILE 

should  have  seen  Richard's  mother — was  she  not  bon 
ny,  Richard?" 

I  bowed. 

"I  could  fain  look  upon  her  again,"  he  said.  "And 
the  scroll — does  it  not  say  '  even  tlwugh  she  were 
dead?'  .  .  .  Who  was  it  called  'Allah'?  .  .  .  You, 
Richard  ?  .  .  .  And  what  face  did  you  see  ?  .  .  ." 

"Tell  him,"  said  Virginia. 

"Ay,  tell  me,"  said  my  father. 

"I  saw  Virginia's  face,"  said  I. 

Then  we  left  him.  But  in  the  hall  Virginia  laid  her 
hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Haven't  you  noticed?"  said  she. 

"What?"  said  I. 

"Your  father,"  said  she. 

"No,"  said  I;   "what  ails  him?" 

Virginia  tapped  her  forehead. 

"Mildewed  here,"  said  she. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  I. 

"Never  mind  then,  Richard,"  said  she;  "I'll  take 
care  of  you." 

That  night  I  dreamed  that  I  heard  my  father  calling 
the  name  of  Allah.  But  in  the  morning  I  rose  early, 
and,  going  to  the  woods,  gathered  an  armful  of  jasmine 
for  Virginia. 

She  received  it  cheerfully. 

"Is  this — er — in  memory  of  any  one?"  she  asked. 
322 


THE  CROCODILE 

"Yes,"  I  said  boldly,  "it's  in  memory  of  me." 
"Then  I  will  keep  it,  Richard,"  she  said.     "Flowers 
are  for  the  living." 
"Yes,"  I  said. 
"And  crocodiles,"  said  she,  "are  for  the  dead." 


Ill 


For  a  long  time  I  looked  upon  the  innocent  gayness 
and  frivolity  of  Virginia  with  blinking  eyes,  as  a  person 
blinks  at  the  sudden  match  lighted  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  I  had  been  pledged  to  darkness  from  my  earliest 
years,  and  now,  while  my  character,  still  happily  plastic, 
was  receiving  its  definite  stamps,  I  blinked  hankeringly 
at  the  light  that  I  might  have  loved,  and  at  the  same 
time  steeled  myself  to  go  through  with  the  prearranged 
marriage.  As  in  the  Yankee  States  children  are  brought 
up  to  believe  that  it  is  wicked  to  be  joyous  on  Sunday 
so  I  had  been  taught  to  believe  of  every  twenty-four 
hours  in  the  week. 

I  cannot  think  peacefully  of  that  unhappy  period  in 
Virginia's  life  forced  on  her  by  us  two  moribunds.  She 
was  the  sun,  soaring  in  bright,  beneficent  career,  brought 
suddenly  to  impotence  by  a  London  fog.  And  I  take 
it  that  to  be  bright  and  happy,  and  to  fail  in  making 
others  so,  is  the  most  grievous  chapter  in  life.  But 
Virginia's  glowing  nature  had  its  effect  on  mine,  and  in 

323 


THE   CROCODILE 

the  end  she  set  my  spirits  dancing.  With  my  father, 
however,  the  effect  of  a  madcap  sunbeam  in  the  house 
was  altogether  different.  For  it  served  only  to  plunge 
him  deeper  into  gloom  and  regret.  If  we  came  to  din 
ner  with  him  fresh  from  the  joyous  morning  and  in  love 
with  laughter,  the  misery  into  which  he  was  too  pal 
pably  thrown  reacted  so  that  for  all  three  of  us  the 
afternoon  became  clouded.  Sometimes  his  sorrow 
would  take  the  form  of  mocking  at  all  things  peaceful 
and  pleasant.  In  particular  the  institution  of  marriage 
aroused  in  him  hostility. 

"Ay,  marry,"  he  would  say,  "Richard,  and  beget 
death.  It  may  be  hereditary  in  our  family.  Ex 
change  your  wife,  who  is  your  soul,  for  a  red  and  puling 
inconsequence,  that  shall  serve  down  the  tiresome  years 
to  remind  you  day  and  night  of  the  sunshine  which  has 
been  extinguished  for  you." 

And  I  remember  once  retorting  on  him  sharply  to 
the  effect  that  if  he  threw  me  so  constantly  in  my  own 
face  I  would  leave  his  roof,  and  in  the  intemperance  of 
the  moment  I  fully  purposed  to  do  so.  "I  will  do  no 
worse  among  strangers,"  I  said,  "or  in  hell,  for  that 
matter." 

My  father  fairly  shrivelled  before  the  unfilial  words, 
and  retreated  so  pathetically  from  his  foolish  position 
that  my  attack  melted  clean  away. 

"But  why,"  I  said  afterward  to  Virginia,  "wouldn't 
324 


THE   CROCODILE 

he  let  me  go?  Why  did  he  say  that  he  could  not  live 
without  me?  And  why,  in  God's  name,  when  it  was 
all  over,  did  he  cry?" 

And  Virginia  thought  for  a  few  moments,  which  was 
unusual  with  her,  and  said  presently:  "Richard,  either 
your  father  is  the  greatest  lover  that  ever  lived,  or  else 
he  is  a  tiresome  egomaniac.  Frankly,  I  believe  the 
latter.  You  are  an  accessory,  a  dismal  carving  on  the 
mouldy  frame  in  which  he  pictures  himself.  When  I 
first  came  I  used  to  tell  him  how  terribly  sorry  I  was 
that  he  had  lost  his  wife.  But  I've  given  that  up.  Be 
tween  you  and  me,  it  made  him  a  little  peevish.  Now 
I  say  to  him,  'Uncle  Richard,  you're  the  unhappiest 
man  I  ever  saw,'  and  that  comforts  him  tremendously. 
Sometimes  he  asks  me  if  I  really  think  so,  and  when  I 
say  that  I  do  he  almost  smiles.  And  I  have  caught  him, 
immediately  after  a  scene  like  that,  looking  at  himself 
in  the  mirror  and  pulling  his  face  even  longer  than 
usual.  .  .  .  There,  I've  shocked  you." 

"No,  Virginia,"  I  said,  "but  I  should  hate  to  believe 
of  any  man  what  you  believe  of  my  father.  His  grief 
must  be  sincere." 

"It  may  be,"  said  Virginia,  "or  it  may  have  been 
once.  I  believe  it  isn't  now.  I  believe  that  if  your 
mother  came  to  life  your  father  would — 

Virginia  did  not  finish.  We  were  seated  in  the  cool 
hall,  for  the  porch  was  piping  hot,  and  our  conversation 

325 


THE  CROCODILE 

was  interrupted  by  a  loud  cry  emanating  from  the 
library. 

"  Allah— Allah— Allah ! " 

"If  I  weren't  charitable,  which  I  am,"  said  Virginia, 
"I  would  say  that  that  was  done  for  effect.  He  knows 
we're  here.  Bet  you,  he's  looking  at  himself  in  the 
glass." 

"Virginia,"  I  began  angrily,  and  I  was  for  telling  her 
that  she  was  ill-natured,  when  the  library  door  opened 
and  my  father  came  out. 

"  Oh! "  said  he,  with  a  fine  start,  "  I  did  not  know  you 
were  there.  .  .  ." 

Virginia  gave  me  one  look,  at  once  hurt  and  amused. 
Then  she  turned  to  my  father  and  said  gravely:  "Did 
anything  happen,  Uncle  Richard,  when  you  called? 
Did  you  see  the — the  face — of — 

"  No,  child,"  said  my  father  sadly.  "  I  was  so  foolish, 
I  may  say  undignified,  as  to  try  a  childish  and  foolish 
experiment.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  tall  and 
stately  form  and  classic  face  of  Richard's  dear  mother 
did  not  appear  to  me.  But  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  an 
other  face,  Virginia — a  face  white  and  broken  by  sorrow 
and  regret,  a  face  that  it  was  not  pleasant  to  see.  .  .  . 
How  it  all  comes  back  to  me,"  he  went  on.  "Here  I 
stood  by  her  casket,  ignorant  of  time  and  place — ig 
norant  of  all  earthly  things  but  loss — and  for  the  last 
time  looked  upon  her  beauty.  No,  not  for  the  last  time, 

326 


THE  CROCODILE 

'"For  all  my  daily  trances 

And  all  my  nightly  dreams 
Are  where  thy  bright  eye  glances 
And  where  thy  footstep  gleams.' 

"Ay,  child,  but  she  was  bonny!  Was  she  not  bonny, 
Richard?" 

I  do  not  know  what  prompted  Virginia  to  ask  the 
sudden  question  which  turned  my  father's  face  for  a 
moment  into  a  painful  blank,  and  placed  him  in  a 
position  from  which  he  extricated  himself,  I  am  forced 
to  believe,  only  by  a  real  and  searching  act  of 
memory. 

"What  was  her  name?"  said  Virginia  quickly. 

It  was  a  full  half  minute  before  my  father  managed 
to  stammer  my  mother's  name.  But  during  the  ensu 
ing  days  it  was  constantly  on  his  lips,  as  if  he  wished  to 
make  up  to  it  for  the  oblivion  into  which  it  had  been 
allowed  to  drop. 

That  afternoon  it  rained  violently,  and  Virginia  per 
suaded  me  to  explore  with  her  the  mysteries  of  the 
ancient  and  cobwebby  attic  which  occupied  the  whole 
upper  floor  of  our  house.  It  was  a  place  in  whose 
slatted  window-blinds  sparrows  built  their  nests,  and 
in  which  a  period,  that  of  my  mother's  brief  mistress- 
ship,  had  been  perfectly  preserved.  It  was  the  most 
cheerful  part  of  the  house. 

327 


THE  CROCODILE 

Among  other  things  we  found  in  a  trunk  of  old  fash 
ion  my  mother's  wedding  regalia.  A  dress  of  apple- 
green  silk  embroidered  about  the  neck  and  wrists  with 
tiny  forget-me-nots,  faded  to  the  palest  shade  of  lilac; 
a  pair  of  tiny  shoes  of  the  same  apple-green  silk,  with 
square  toes  and  dark  jade  buttons;  a  veil  of  Venetian 
point,  from  which  a  large  square  had  been  cut,  and  the 
brittle  remnants  of  a  wreath — my  mother's  wedding 
wreath,  which  old  Ann  had  often  told  me  was  com 
bined  of  apple  and  orange  flowers.  When  Virginia 
stood  up  and  held  the  neck  of  my  mother's  dress  level 
with  the  neck  of  her  own  it  did  not  reach  to  her  ankles, 
and  she  smiled  at  me. 

"Richard,"  she  said,  "I  could  not  get  into  this 
dress.  Your  tall  and  stately  mother  was  no  bigger 
than  I." 

"And  no  sweeter,  I  fancy,"  said  I.  For  the  being 
together  with  Virginia  over  my  mother's  things  had 
suddenly  opened  my  heart  to  her. 

"Oh,  Virginia,"  I  went  on,  "it  makes  me  sick  to 
think  of  your  living  on  in  this  dead  house.  I  want 
you  to  be  happy.  I  want  to  make  you  happy. 
You  are  the  only  good  thing  that  was  ever  in  my 
life.  I  know  it  now.  And  I — I  want  to  be  happy, 
too.  .  .  ." 

We  explored  the  attic  no  more  that  day,  and  after 
supper  we  told  my  father. 

328 


THE  CROCODILE 


IV 


From  the  very  announcement  to  him  of  our  engage 
ment  a  marked  change  came  over  my  father.  Hitherto 
his  influence  had  been  for  darkness,  but  of  a  silent  and 
quiet  character,  like  that  which  clouds  spread  through 
a  wood  at  noon;  but  now  he  had  become  baleful  and 
pointed  in  his  efforts  to  make  us  unhappy. 

To  set  in  motion  any  machinery  of  escape  was  too 
impracticable  and  tedious  to  be  thought  of.  Had  I 
been  for  myself  alone,  I  would  have  left  him  at  this 
period  and  endeavored  to  support  myself.  But  with 
Virginia  to  care  for — and  I  could  not  leave  her  while  I 
made  my  own  way — the  impulse  was  empty.  He  made 
attacks  on  our  happiness  with  tongue  and  contrivance. 
He  descended  to  raillery  and  sneers,  even  to  coarseness. 
Yet  when  the  confines  of  endurance  had  been  ap 
proached  too  closely,  and  I  threatened  to  cross  them, 
he  clung  to  me  with  such  a  seeming  of  feeling  and 
patheticalness  that  I  was  forced  to  hold  back.  Through 
these  harsh  times  Virginia  was  all  sweetness  and  pa 
tience,  but  her  cheeks  lost  their  color  and  her  body  the 
delicious  fulness  of  its  lines. 

My  father  was  at  times  so  eccentric  in  his  behavior 
that  I  had  it  often  in  mind  to  ask  the  investigations  of 
a  physician.  But  as  often  the  horror  of  a  son  prying 

329 


THE  CROCODILE 

after  madness  in  his  father  withheld  me.  As  always, 
his  actions  centred  around  the  observance  of  his  private 
grief.  And  to  that  great  mental  structure  which  he 
had  made  of  my  mother's  beauties  and  virtues,  he  added 
incessantly  wings  and  superstructures,  until  we  had 
portrayed  for  us  a  woman  in  no  way  human  or  pos 
sible.  To  draw  odious  comparisons  between  Virginia 
and  my  mother,  between  his  capacity  for  loving  and  my 
own,  were  his  constant  and  indelicate  exercises. 

"Do  you  think  you  love,  Richard?"  he  would  say. 
"If  she  were  to  die  this  night,  where  would  your  love 
be  at  the  end  of  the  year?  Is  she  bonny  enough  to 
hold  a  man's  heart  till  death  shall  seek  him  out  too? 
She's  well  enough  in  her  way,  your  Virginia,  I'll  not 
deny  that.  But  does  a  man  remember  what  was  only 
well  enough?  Does  a  man  remember  the  first  peach 
he  ate  ?  Nay,  he  will  not  remember  that.  But  will  he 
forget  the  first  time  that  he  heard  Beethoven?  Your 
mother,  she  was  that — rich,  strong  music,  she  was — 
the  bonny  one — the  unforgetable.  Ah,  the  majesty  of 
her,  Richard,  that  was  only  for  me  to  approach!" 

And  such  like,  till  the  heart  sickened  in  you.  Often 
he  made  us  go  with  him  to  the  vault  and  listen  to  his 
speeches,  and  kneel  with  him  in  the  wet.  Finally  he 
played  on  us  a  trick  that  had  in  it  something  of  the 
truly  devilish,  and  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  He 
began  by  insisting  that  we  should  be  married  and  ap- 

330 


THE  CROCODILE 

pointing  a  day.  There  was  to  be  a  minister,  ourselves, 
and  the  servants.  We  were  glad  enough  to  be  married, 
even  on  such  scanty  terms,  and  I  well  remember  with 
what  eagerness  I  arose  on  the  glad  morning,  and 
slipped  into  my  better  suit  of  black,  for  I  had  no  gayer 
clothes.  Virginia  did  not  come  down  to  breakfast,  but 
toward  the  close  of  that  meal,  at  which  my  father  was 
the  nearest  he  ever  came  to  being  cheerful  I  heard  her 
calling  to  me  from  the  upper  story.  When  I  knocked 
at  her  door  she  opened  it  a  little  and  showed  me  a 
teary  face.  "Richard,"  she  said,  "they've  taken  away 
my  clothes  and  left  only  a  black  dress.  I  won't  be 
married  in  black." 

"Does  it  matter,  dear?"  I  said.  "Put  it  on  and  we 
will  ransack  the  attic  for  something  gayer." 

But  we  found  the  attic  locked.  My  father  had  pro 
vided  against  resistance. 

"Does  it  matter,  dear?"  I  said.  "It's  not  your 
clothes  I'm  marrying — it's  my  darling  herself." 

So  she  smiled  bravely  and  we  went  downstairs.  The 
ceremony  was  appointed  for  eleven  in  the  morning. 
But  at  that  hour  neither  the  minister,  nor  my  father, 
nor  the  servants  were  to  be  found.  We  waited  until 
twelve.  Then  I  went  out  to  look  for  my  father.  I 
went  first  to  the  vault  and  there  found  him.  He  was 
kneeling  in  the  wet,  facing  the  door,  and  holding  in  his 
hands  the  stuffed  crocodile.  He  had,  I  suppose,  been 

331 


THE  CROCODILE 

calling  the  name  of  Allah  in  the  wild  hope  of  seeing  my 
mother's  face. 

"Have  you  forgotten  that  we  are  to  be  married  to 
day?"  I  said. 

He  rose,  hiding  the  crocodile  beneath  his  coat. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  had  not  forgotten  that.  Why 
should  I  be  forgetting  that  ?  But  the  minister,  he  could 
not  come — at  the  last  minute  he  could  not  come." 

"Then  you  should  have  told  us,"  I  said  sternly. 

"Would  you  be  angry  with  me,  Richard,  my  son?" 
he  answered  gently. 

"Why  couldn't  the  minister  come?"  I  said,  giving  no 
heed  to  his  question. 

The  gentleness,  which  must  have  been  play-acting, 
went  out  of  my  father's  voice. 

"The  minister,"  he  said  sneeringly:  "faith,  the  min 
ister,  he  had  a  more  important  funeral  to  attendo" 

My  gorge  rose  and  fell. 

"What  have  you  done  with  Virginia's  trunk?"  I 
said. 

"It  will  be  back  in  her  room  by  now,"  said  my  father. 

"Thank  you,"  said  I,  "and  good-day  to  you." 

"  Good-day,  Richard  ?    Good-day  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  I.     "I  am  going  to  take  her  away." 

"You'll  not  go  far  without  money,"  said  he. 

"With  heart,"  said  I,  "we  shall  go  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth." 

332 


THE  CROCODILE 

My  father  turned  to  the  vault  and  addressed  the 
shade  of  my  mother.  "Hear  him,"  cried  he,  "hear 
him  that  took  you  from  me.  He's  going  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth.  He  turns  his  back  upon  your  hallowed 
bones.  .  .  ."  His  words  became  unintelligible. 

During  the  packing  of  my  trunk  I  left  off  again  and 
again  to  go  to  Virginia's  door  to  ask  if  all  were  well 
with  her.  For  there  had  been  a  look  in  my  father's 
face  which  haunted  me  like  a  hint  of  coming  evil.  And 
although  nothing  but  good  came  of  that  afternoon, 
still  its  events  were  so  strange  as  to  make  me  believe 
that  men  are  often  forewarned  of  the  unusual.  It  was 
about  three  o'clock  that  suddenly  I  heard  my  father 
shrieking  aloud  in  his  library.  Thinking  that  sickness 
must  have  seized  him,  I  bounded  down  the  stairs  to 
offer  assistance  or  search  for  it  if  necessary.  But  ex 
cept  for  a  pallor  unusual  even  with  him,  he  was  not 
apparently  sick.  The  crocodile  lay  belly  up  on  the 
table,  as  if  it  had  been  hastily  laid  down. 

"What's  the  matter?"  I  asked. 

"Richard,"  said  my  father,  in  great  excitement," the 
door  of  the  vault  is  open.  But  now  I  heard  it  creaking 
upon  its  hinges " 

Virginia,  who  had  heard  the  shrieks,  now  joined  us, 
her  face  white  with  alarm. 

"What  is  it?"  she  cried. 

333 


THE  CROCODILE 

"The  resurrection  of  the  dead!"  cried  my  father, and, 
thrusting  my  detaining  arm  suddenly  aside,  he  literally 
burst  out  of  the  house.  I  followed  at  my  best  speed, 
and  Virginia  brought  up  the  rear.  In  this  order  we 
raced  through  the  woods,  brightly  mottled  with  sun 
shine  and  shadows,  in  the  direction  of  the  vault.  Run 
as  I  would,  I  could  not  gain  on  my  father,  who  seemed 
to  possess  the  speed  of  a  pestilence.  As  he  ran  he  kept 
crying:  "God  is  merciful!  I  shall  see  the  face  of  my 
beloved." 

I  cannot  account  for  what  happened.  A  little  lady, 
dressed  in  apple-green  silk,  with  a  wreath  of  flowers 
upon  her  head,  appeared  suddenly  in  the  path,  ahead 
of  and  facing  my  father.  She  held  out  her  arms  as  if 
to  detain  him.  But  he  bore  down  upon  her  at  full 
speed,  and  I  cried  out  to  warn  her.  Then  they  met. 
But  there  was  no  visible  or  audible  sign  of  collision. 
My  father  literally  seemed  to  pass  through  her.  He 
ran  on,  always  at  top  speed,  and  the  little  lady  in  the 
apple-green  silk  was  no  longer  to  be  seen  in  any  direc 
tion.  Yet  she  seemed  to  have  left  an  influence  in  the 
bright  forest,  gentle  and  serene,  and  I  could  swear  that 
there  lingered  in  the  air  a  faint  smell  of  apple  blossoms 
and  orange  blossoms.  And  it  may  be  the  echo  of  a  cry 
of  pain — the  ghost  of  a  cry. 

When  I  came  to  the  vault  its  door  was  wide  open, 
and  I  found  my  father  within,  breaking  with  his  thin 

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hands  the  lid  from  my  mother's  coffin.  I  was  not  in 
time  to  prevent  him  from  completing  his  mad  outrage. 
The  lid  came  clean  away  with  a  ripping  noise,  and  my 
father  gazed  eagerly  at  the  face  thus  rudely  revealed  to 
the  light  of  day.  But  what  horrible  alchemy  of  the 
grave  had  brought  into  shape  the  face  upon  which 
my  father  looked  so  eagerly  is  not  for  mortal  man  to 
know.  For  the  face  was  not  my  mother's,  but  his 
own. 

Gently  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  forehead,  and  gently 
he  said:  "Was  she  not  bonny,  Richard?  .  .  .  Was 
she  not  bonny  ?  " 

V 

Our  honeymoon  was  nearly  a  week  old,  when  one 
morning  Virginia  and  I  were  taking  breakfast  in  the 
glass  dining-room  of  the  old  Hygeia  Hotel.  The 
waiters,  the  other  guests,  the  cups,  saucers,  knives,  and 
spoons  all  made  eyes  at  us,  but  we  were  wonderfully 
happy.  An  old  gentleman  approached  our  table  with 
a  kind  of  a  sad  tiptoe  gait.  Tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "I  have  not  the  heart  to 
congratulate  you  on  your  happiness,  for  I  cannot  help 
remembering  what  a  good  father  you  have  so  recently 
lost.  I  was  present  at  his  wedding,  and  I  have  not  seen 
him  since.  But  as  you  see — "  and  the  old  gentleman 
drew  attention  to  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 

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THE  CROCODILE 

"Aren't  you  mistaken,  sir?"  said  I.  "Aren't  you 
thinking  of  somebody  else's  father?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  he,  "your  father  was . 

Don't  tell  me  that  he  wasn't." 

"  I  shall  have  to,"  I  said,  "  for  he  wasn't.  My  father 
was  a  crocodile." 


336 


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A     000049198     5 


